But, though he refused to take up the colorful theme of the biographies of the Captain, the Dancer, Lolita, and the rest, John Engle began to speak lightly upon an associated topic, first asking the girl if she knew with what ceremony the old Western bells had been cast; when she shook her head and while the slow throbbing beat of the Captain still insisted through the night’s silences, he explained that doubtless all six of Ignacio Chavez’s bells had taken form under the calm gaze of high priests of old Spain.  For legend had it that all six were from their beginnings destined for the new missions to be scattered broadcast throughout a new land, to ring out word of God to heathen ears.  Bells meant for such high service were never cast without grave religious service and sacrifice.  Through the darkness of long-dead centuries the girl’s stimulated fancies followed the man’s words; she visualized the great glowing caldrons in which the fusing metals grew red and an intolerable white; saw men and women draw near, proud blue-blooded grandees on one hand, and the lowly on the other, with one thought; saw the maidens and ladies from the courtyards of the King’s palace as they removed golden bracelets and necklaces from white arms and throats, so that the red and yellow gold might go with their prayers into the molten metals, enriching them, while those whose poverty was great, but whose devotion was greater, offered what little silver ornaments they could.  Carved silver vases, golden cups, minted coins and cherished ornaments, all were offered generously and devoutly until the blazing caldrons had mingled the Queen’s girdle-clasps with a bauble from the beggar girl.

“And in the end,” smiled Engle, “there are no bells with the sweet tone of old Mission bells, or with their soft eloquence.”

While he was talking Ignacio Chavez had allowed the dangling rope to slip from his hands so that the Captain rested quiet in the starshine.  Roderick and Florence were coming in through the wide patio door; Norton was just saying that Florrie had promised to play something for him when the front door knocker announced another visitor.  Florence made a little disdainful face as though she guessed who it was; Engle went to the door.

Even Virginia Page in this land of strangers knew who the man was.  For she had seen enough of him to-day, on the stage across the weary miles of desert, to remember him and to dislike him.  He was the man whom Galloway and the stage-driver had called “Doc,” the sole representative of the medical fraternity in San Juan until her coming.  She disliked him first vaguely and with purely feminine instinct; secondly because of an air which he never laid aside of a serene consciousness of self-superiority.  He had established himself in what he was pleased to consider a community of nobodies, his inferiors intellectually and culturally.  He was of that type of man-animal that lends itself to fairly accurate cataloguing at the end of the first five minutes’ acquaintance.  The most striking of the physical attributes about his person as he entered were his little mustache and neatly trimmed beard and the diamond stick-pin in his tie.  Remove these articles and it would have been difficult to distinguish him from countless thousands of other inefficient and opinionated individuals.