Gordon went blinking out of the San Miguel mission into a world that basked indolently in a pleasant glow of sunshine.  It seemed to him that here time had stood still.  This impression remained with him during his tramp back to the hotel.  He passed trains of faggot-laden burros, driven by Mexicans from Tesuque and by Indians from adjoining villages, the little animals so packed around their bellies with firewood that they reminded him of caricatures of beruffed Elizabethan dames of the olden days.

Surely this old town, which seemed to be lying in a peaceful siesta for centuries unbroken, was an unusual survival from the buried yesterdays of history.  It was hard to believe, for instance, that the Governor’s Palace, a long one-story adobe structure stretching across one entire side of the plaza, had been the active seat of so much turbulent and tragic history, that for more than three hundred years it had been occupied continuously by Spanish, Mexican, Indian, and American governors.  Its walls had echoed the noise of many a bloody siege and hidden many an execution and assassination.  From this building the old Spanish cavaliers Onate and Vicente de Salivar and Penalosa set out on their explorations.  From it issued the order to execute forty-eight Pueblo prisoners upon the plaza in front.  Governor Armijo had here penned his defiance to General Kearney, who shortly afterward nailed upon the flagpole the Stars and Stripes.  The famous novel “Ben Hur” was written in one of these historic rooms.

But the twentieth century had leaned across the bridge of time to shake hands with the sixteenth.  A new statehouse had been built after the fashion of new Western commonwealths, and the old Palace was now given over to curio stores and offices.  Everywhere the new era compromised with the old.  He passed the office of the lawyer he had come to consult, and upon one side of the sign ran the legend: 

+---------------------------------+
|            Despacho             |
|               de                |
|   Thomas M. Fitt, Licendiado.   |
+---------------------------------+

Upon the other he read an English translation: 

+---------------------------------+
|           Law Office            |
|               of                |
|    Thomas M. Fitt, Attorney.    |
+---------------------------------+

Plainly the old civilization was beginning to disappear before an alert, aggressive Americanism.

At the hotel the modern spirit became so pronounced during breakfast, owing to the conversation of a shoe and a dress-goods drummer at an adjoining table, that Gordon’s imagination escaped from the tramp of Spanish mailclad cavalry and from thoughts of the plots and counterplots that had been devised in the days before American occupancy.

In the course of the morning Dick, together with Davis, called at the office of his attorney.  Thomas M. Fitt, a bustling little man with a rather pompous manner, welcomed his client effusively.  He had been appointed local attorney in charge by Gordon’s Denver lawyers, and he was very eager to make the most of such advertising as his connection with so prominent a case would bring.