Sighing gently, Carmena picked up the reins, and stood still, holding the horse, while the lovers clasped each other with breathless words. “How she loves Alessandro!” thought the widowed Carmena. “Will they leave him alive to stay with her? It is better not to love!” But there was no bitter envy in her mind for the two who were thus blest while she went desolate12. All of Pablo's people had great affection for Alessandro. They had looked forward to his being over them in his father's place. They knew his goodness, and were proud of his superiority to themselves.
“Majella, you tremble,” said Alessandro, as he threw his arms around her. “You have feared! Yet you were not alone.” He glanced at Carmena's motionless figure, standing13 by Baba.
“No, not alone, dear Alessandro, but it was so long!” replied Ramona; “and I feared the men had taken you, as you feared. Was there any one there?”
“No! No one has heard anything. All was well. They thought I had just come from Pachanga,” he answered.
“Except for Carmena, I should have ridden after you half an hour ago,” continued Ramona. “But she told me to wait.”
“She told you!” repeated Alessandro. “How did you understand her speech?”
“I do not know. Was it not a strange thing?” replied Ramona. “She spoke14 in your tongue, but I thought I understood her, Ask her if she did not say that I must not go; that it was safer to wait; that you had so said, and you would soon come.”
Alessandro repeated the words to Carmena. “Did you say that?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Carmena.
“You see, then, she has understood the Luiseno words,” he said delightedly. “She is one of us.”
“Yes,” said Carmena, gravely, “she is one of us.” Then, taking Ramona's hand in both of her own for farewell, she repeated, in a tone as of dire15 prophecy, “One of us, Alessandro! one of us!” And as she gazed after their retreating forms, almost immediately swallowed and lost in the darkness, she repeated the words again to herself,—“One of us! one of us! Sorrow came to me; she rides to meet it!” and she crept back to her husband's grave, and threw herself down, to watch till the dawn.
The road which Alessandro would naturally have taken would carry them directly by Hartsel's again. But, wishing to avoid all risk of meeting or being seen by any of the men on the place, he struck well out to the north, to make a wide circuit around it. This brought them past the place where Antonio's house had stood. Here Alessandro halted, and putting his hand on Baba's rein10, walked the horses close to the pile of ruined walls. “This was Antonio's house, Majella,” he whispered. “I wish every house in the valley had been pulled down like this. Old Juana was right. The Americans are living in my father's house, Majella,” he went on, his whisper growing thick with rage. “That was what kept me so long. I was looking in at the window at them eating their supper. I thought I should go mad, Majella. If I had had my gun, I should have shot them all dead!”
An almost inarticulate gasp16 was Ramona's first reply to this. “Living in your house!” she said. “You saw them?”
“Yes,” he said; “the man, and his wife, and two little children; and the man came out, with his gun, on the doorstep, and fired it. They thought they heard something moving, and it might be an Indian; so he fired. That was what kept me so long.”
Just at this moment Baba tripped over some small object on the ground. A few steps farther, and he tripped again. “There is something caught round his foot, Alessandro,” said Ramona. “It keeps moving.”
Alessandro jumped off his horse, and kneeling down, exclaimed, “It's a stake,—and the lariat17 fastened to it. Holy Virgin18! what—” The rest of his ejaculation was inaudible. The next Ramona knew, he had run swiftly on, a rod or two. Baba had followed, and Capitan and the pony19; and there stood a splendid black horse, as big as Baba, and Alessandro talking under his breath to him, and clapping both his hands over the horse's nose, to stop him, as often as he began whinnying; and it seemed hardly a second more before he had his saddle off the poor little Indian pony, and striking it sharply on its sides had turned it free, had saddled the black horse, and leaping on his back, said, with almost a sob20 in his voice: “My Majella, it is Benito, my own Benito. Now the saints indeed have helped us! Oh, the ass2, the idiot, to stake out Benito with such a stake as that! A jack21 rabbit had pulled it up. Now, my Majella, we will gallop22! Faster! faster! I will not breathe easy till we are out of this cursed valley. When we are once in the Santa Margarita Canon, I know a trail they will never find!”
Like the wind galloped23 Benito,—Alessandro half lying on his back, stroking his forehead, whispering to him, the horse snorting with joy: which were gladder of the two, horse or man, could not be said. And neck by neck with Benito came Baba. How the ground flew away under their feet! This was companionship, indeed, worthy24 of Baba's best powers. Not in all the California herds25 could be found two superber horses than Benito and Baba. A wild, almost reckless joy took possession of Alessandro. Ramona was half terrified as she heard him still talking, talking to Benito. For an hour they did not draw rein. Both Benito and Alessandro knew every inch of the ground. Then, just as they had descended26 into the deepest part of the canon, Alessandro suddenly reined27 sharply to the left, and began climbing the precipitous wall. “Can you follow, dearest Majella?” he cried.
“Do you suppose Benito can do anything that Baba cannot?” she retorted, pressing on closely.
But Baba did not like it. Except for the stimulus28 of Benito ahead, he would have given Ramona trouble.
“There is only a little, rough like this, dear,” called Alessandro, as he leaped a fallen tree, and halted to see how Baba took it. “Good!” he cried, as Baba jumped it like a deer. “Good! Majella! We have got the two best horses in the country. You'll see they are alike, when daylight comes. I have often wondered they were so much alike. They would go together splendidly.”
After a few rods of this steep climbing they came out on the top of the canon's south wall, in a dense29 oak forest comparatively free from underbrush. “Now,” said Alessandro, “I can go from here to San Diego by paths that no white man knows. We will be near there before daylight.”
Already the keen salt air of the ocean smote30 their faces. Ramona drank it in with delight. “I taste salt in the air, Alessandro,” she cried.
“Yes, it is the sea,” he said. “This canon leads straight to the sea. I wish we could go by the shore, Majella. It is beautiful there. When it is still, the waves come as gently to the land as if they were in play; and you can ride along with your horse's feet in the water, and the green cliffs almost over your head; and the air off the water is like wine in one's head.”
“I dare not,” he answered regretfully. “Not now, Majella; for on the shore-way, at all times, there are people going and coming.”
“Some other time, Alessandro, we can come, after we are married, and there is no danger?” she asked.
“Yes, Majella,” he replied; but as he spoke the words, he thought, “Will a time ever come when there will be no danger?”
The shore of the Pacific Ocean for many miles north of San Diego is a succession of rounding promontories32, walling the mouths of canons, down many of which small streams make to the sea. These canons are green and rich at bottom, and filled with trees, chiefly oak. Beginning as little more than rifts33 in the ground, they deepen and widen, till at their mouths they have a beautiful crescent of shining beach from an eighth to a quarter of a mile long, The one which Alessandro hoped to reach before morning was not a dozen miles from the old town of San Diego, and commanded a fine view of the outer harbor. When he was last in it, he had found it a nearly impenetrable thicket34 of young oak-trees. Here, he believed, they could hide safely all day, and after nightfall ride into San Diego, be married at the priest's house, and push on to San Pasquale that same night. “All day, in that canon, Majella can look at the sea,” he thought; “but I will not tell her now, for it may be the trees have been cut down, and we cannot be so close to the shore.”
It was near sunrise when they reached the place. The trees had not been cut down. Their tops, seen from above, looked like a solid bed of moss35 filling in the canon bottom. The sky and the sea were both red. As Ramona looked down into this soft green pathway, it seemed, leading out to the wide and sparkling sea, she thought Alessandro had brought her into a fairy-land.
“What a beautiful world!” she cried; and riding up so close to Benito that she could lay her hand on Alessandro's, she said solemnly: “Do you not think we ought to be very happy, Alessandro, in such a beautiful world as this? Do you think we might sing our sunrise hymn36 here?”
Alessandro glanced around. They were alone on the breezy open; it was not yet full dawn; great masses of crimson37 vapor39 were floating upward from the hills behind San Diego. The light was still burning in the light-house on the promontory40 walling the inner harbor, but in a few moments more it would be day. “No, Majella, not here.” he said. “We must not stay. As soon as the sun rises, a man or a horse may be seen on this upper coast-line as far as eye can reach. We must be among the trees with all the speed we can make.”
It was like a house with a high, thick roof of oak tree-tops, the shelter they found. No sun penetrated41 it; a tiny trickle42 of water still remained, and some grass along its rims38 was still green, spite of the long drought,—a scanty43 meal for Baba and Benito, but they ate it with relish44 in each other's company.
“They like each other, those two,” said Ramona, laughing, as she watched them. “They will be friends.”
“Ay,” said Alessandro, also smiling. “Horses are friends, like men, and can hate each other, like men, too. Benito would never see Antonio's mare45, the little yellow one, that he did not let fly his heels at her; and she was as afraid, at sight of him, as a cat is at a dog. Many a time I have laughed to see it.”
“Know you the priest at San Diego?” asked Ramona.
“Not well,” replied Alessandro. “He came seldom to Temecula when I was there; but he is a friend of Indians. I know he came with the men from San Diego at the time when there was fighting, and the whites were in great terror; and they said, except for Father Gaspara's words, there would not have been a white man left alive in Pala. My father had sent all his people away before that fight began. He knew it was coming, but he would have nothing to do with it. He said the Indians were all crazy. It was no use. They would only be killed themselves. That is the worst thing, my Majella. The stupid Indians fight and kill, and then what can we do? The white men think we are all the same. Father Gaspara has never been to Pala, I heard, since that time. There goes there now the San Juan Capistrano priest. He is a bad man. He takes money from the starving poor.”
“A priest!” ejaculated Ramona, horror-stricken.
“Ay! a priest!” replied Alessandro. “They are not all good,—not like Father Salvierderra.”
“Oh, if we could but have gone to Father Salvierderra!” exclaimed Ramona, involuntarily.
Alessandro looked distressed46. “It would have been much more danger, Majella,” he said, “and I had no knowledge of work I could do there.”
His look made Ramona remorseful47 at once. How cruel to lay one feather-weight of additional burden on this loving man. “Oh, this is much better, really,” she said. “I did not mean what I said. It is only because I have always loved Father Salvierderra so. And the Senora will tell him what is not true. Could we not send him a letter, Alessandro?”
“There is a Santa Inez Indian I know,” replied Alessandro, “who comes down with nets to sell, sometimes, to Temecula. I know not if he goes to San Diego. If I could get speech with him, he would go up from Santa Inez to Santa Barbara for me, I am sure; for once he lay in my father's house, sick for many weeks, and I nursed him, and since then he is always begging me to take a net from him, whenever he comes. It is not two days from Santa Inez to Santa Barbara.”
“I wish it were the olden time now, Alessandro,” sighed Ramona, “when the men like Father Salvierderra had all the country. Then there would be work for all, at the Missions. The Senora says the Missions were like palaces, and that there were thousands of Indians in every one of them; thousands and thousands, all working so happy and peaceful.”
“The Senora does not know all that happened at the Missions,” replied Alessandro. “My father says that at some of them were dreadful things, when bad men had power. Never any such things at San Luis Rey. Father Peyri was like a father to all his Indians. My father says that they would all of them lie down in a fire for him, if he had commanded it. And when he went away, to leave the country, when his heart was broken, and the Mission all ruined, he had to fly by night, Majella, just as you and I have done; for if the Indians had known it, they would have risen up to keep him. There was a ship here in San Diego harbor, to sail for Mexico, and the Father made up his mind to go in it; and it was over this same road we have come, my Majella, that he rode, and by night; and my father was the only one he trusted to know it. My father came with him; they took the swiftest horses, and they rode all night, and my father carried in front of him, on the horse, a box of the sacred things of the altar, very heavy. And many a time my father has told me the story, how they got to San Diego at daybreak, and the Father was rowed out to the ship in a little boat; and not much more than on board was he, my father standing like one dead on the shore, watching, he loved him so, when, lo! he heard a great crying, and shouting, and trampling48 of horses' feet, and there came galloping49 down to the water's edge three hundred of the Indians from San Luis Rey, who had found out that the Father had gone to San Diego to take ship, and they had ridden all night on his track, to fetch him back. And when my father pointed50 to the ship, and told them he was already on board, they set up a cry fit to bring the very sky down; and some of them flung themselves into the sea, and swam out to the ship, and cried and begged to be taken on board and go with him. And Father Peyri stood on the deck, blessing51 them, and saying farewell, with the tears running on his face; and one of the Indians—how they never knew—made shift to climb up on the chains and ropes, and got into the ship itself; and they let him stay, and he sailed away with the Father. And my father said he was all his life sorry that he himself had not thought to do the same thing; but he was like one dumb and deaf and with no head, he was so unhappy at the Father's going.”
“Was it here, in this very harbor?” asked Ramona, in breathless interest, pointing out towards the blue water of which they could see a broad belt framed by their leafy foreground arch of oak tops.
“Ay, just there he sailed,—as that ship goes now,” he exclaimed, as a white-sailed schooner52 sailed swiftly by, going out to sea. “But the ship lay at first inside the bar; you cannot see the inside harbor from here. It is the most beautiful water I have ever seen, Majella. The two high lands come out like two arms to hold it and keep it safe, as if they loved it.”
“But, Alessandro,” continued Ramona, “were there really bad men at the other Missions? Surely not the Franciscan Fathers?”
“Perhaps not the Fathers themselves, but the men under them. It was too much power, Majella. When my father has told me how it was, it has seemed to me I should not have liked to be as he was. It is not right that one man should have so much power. There was one at the San Gabriel Mission; he was an Indian. He had been set over the rest; and when a whole band of them ran away one time, and went back into the mountains, he went after them; and he brought back a piece of each man's ear; the pieces were strung on a string; and he laughed, and said that was to know them by again,—by their clipped ears. An old woman, a Gabrieleno, who came over to Temecula, told me she saw that. She lived at the Mission herself. The Indians did not all want to come to the Missions; some of them preferred to stay in the woods, and live as they always had lived; and I think they had a right to do that if they preferred, Majella. It was stupid of them to stay and be like beasts, and not know anything; but do you not think they had the right?”
“It is the command to preach the gospel to every creature,” replied the pious53 Ramona. “That is what Father Salvierderra said was the reason the Franciscans came here. I think they ought to have made the Indians listen. But that was dreadful about the ears, Alessandro. Do you believe it?”
“The old woman laughed when she told it,” he answered. “She said it was a joke; so I think it was true. I know I would have killed the man who tried to crop my ears that way.”
“Did you ever tell that to Father Salvierderra?” asked Ramona.
“No, Majella. It would not be polite,” said Alessandro.
“Well, I don't believe it,” replied Ramona, in a relieved tone. “I don't believe any Franciscan ever could have permitted such things.”
The great red light in the light-house tower had again blazed out, and had been some time burning before Alessandro thought it prudent54 to resume their journey. The road on which they must go into old San Diego, where Father Gaspara lived, was the public road from San Diego to San Luis Rey, and they were almost sure to meet travellers on it.
But their fleet horses bore them so well, that it was not late when they reached the town. Father Gaspara's house was at the end of a long, low adobe55 building, which had served no mean purpose in the old Presidio days, but was now fallen into decay; and all its rooms except those occupied by the Father, had been long uninhabited. On the opposite side of the way, in a neglected, weedy open, stood his chapel56,—a poverty-stricken little place, its walls imperfectly whitewashed57, decorated by a few coarse pictures and by broken sconces of looking-glass, rescued in their dilapidated condition from the Mission buildings, now gone utterly58 to ruin. In these had been put handle-holders of common tin, in which a few cheap candles dimly lighted the room. Everything about it was in unison59 with the atmosphere of the place,—the most profoundly melancholy60 in all Southern California. Here was the spot where that grand old Franciscan, Padre Junipero Serra, began his work, full of the devout61 and ardent62 purpose to reclaim63 the wilderness64 and its peoples to his country and his Church; on this very beach he went up and down for those first terrible weeks, nursing the sick, praying with the dying, and burying the dead, from the pestilence-stricken Mexican ships lying in the harbor. Here he baptized his first Indian converts, and founded his first Mission. And the only traces now remaining of his heroic labors65 and hard-won successes were a pile of crumbling66 ruins, a few old olive-trees and palms; in less than another century even these would be gone; returned into the keeping of that mother, the earth, who puts no head-stones at the sacredest of her graves.
Father Gaspara had been for many years at San Diego. Although not a Franciscan, having, indeed, no especial love for the order, he had been from the first deeply impressed by the holy associations of the place. He had a nature at once fiery67 and poetic68; there were but three things he could have been,—a soldier, a poet, or a priest. Circumstances had made him a priest; and the fire and the poetry which would have wielded69 the sword or kindled70 the verse, had he found himself set either to fight or to sing, had all gathered into added force in his priestly vocation71. The look of a soldier he had never quite lost,—neither the look nor the tread; and his flashing dark eyes, heavy black hair and beard, and quick elastic72 step, seemed sometimes strangely out of harmony with his priest's gown. And it was the sensitive soul of the poet in him which had made him withdraw within himself more and more, year after year, as he found himself comparatively powerless to do anything for the hundreds of Indians that he would fain have seen gathered once more, as of old, into the keeping of the Church. He had made frequent visits to them in their shifting refuges, following up family after family, band after band, that he knew; he had written bootless letter after letter to the Government officials of one sort and another, at Washington. He had made equally bootless efforts to win some justice, some protection for them, from officials nearer home; he had endeavored to stir the Church itself to greater efficiency in their behalf. Finally, weary, disheartened, and indignant with that intense, suppressed indignation which the poetic temperament73 alone can feel, he had ceased,—had said, “It is of no use; I will speak no word; I am done; I can bear no more!” and settling down into the routine of his parochial duties to the little Mexican and Irish congregation of his charge in San Diego, he had abandoned all effort to do more for the Indians than visit their chief settlements once or twice a year, to administer the sacraments. When fresh outrages74 were brought to his notice, he paced his room, plucked fiercely at his black beard, with ejaculations, it is to be feared, savoring75 more of the camp than the altar; but he made no effort to do anything. Lighting76 his pipe, he would sit down on the old bench in his tile-paved veranda77, and smoke by the hour, gazing out on the placid78 water of the deserted79 harbor, brooding, ever brooding, over the wrongs he could not redress80.
A few paces off from his door stood the just begun walls of a fine brick church, which it had been the dream and pride of his heart to see builded, and full of worshippers. This, too, had failed. With San Diego's repeatedly vanishing hopes and dreams of prosperity had gone this hope and dream of Father Gaspara's. It looked, now, as if it would be indeed a waste of money to build a costly81 church on this site. Sentiment, however sacred and loving towards the dead, must yield to the demands of the living. To build a church on the ground where Father Junipero first trod and labored82, would be a work to which no Catholic could be indifferent; but there were other and more pressing claims to be met first. This was right. Yet the sight of these silent walls, only a few feet high, was a sore one to Father Gaspara,—a daily cross, which he did not find grow lighter83 as he paced up and down his veranda, year in and year out, in the balmy winter and cool summer of that magic climate.
“Majella, the chapel is lighted; but that is good!” exclaimed Alessandro, as they rode into the silent plaza84. “Father Gaspara must be there;” and jumping off his horse, he peered in at the uncurtained window. “A marriage, Majella,—a marriage!” he cried, hastily returning. “This, too, is good fortune. We need not to wait long.”
When the sacristan whispered to Father Gaspara that an Indian couple had just come in, wishing to be married, the Father frowned. His supper was waiting; he had been out all day, over at the old Mission olive-orchard, where he had not found things to his mind; the Indian man and wife whom he hired to take care of the few acres the Church yet owned there had been neglecting the Church lands and trees, to look after their own. The Father was vexed85, tired, and hungry, and the expression with which he regarded Alessandro and Ramona, as they came towards him, was one of the least prepossessing of which his dark face was capable. Ramona, who had never knelt to any priest save the gentle Father Salvierderra, and who had supposed that all priests must look, at least, friendly, was shocked at the sight of the impatient visage confronting her. But, as his first glance fell on Ramona, Father Gaspara's expression changed.
“What is all this!” he thought; and as quick as he thought it, he exclaimed, in a severe tone, looking at Ramona, “Woman, are you an Indian?”
“Yes, Father,” answered Ramona, gently. “My mother was an Indian.”
“Ah! half-breed!” thought Father Gaspara. “It is strange how sometimes one of the types will conquer, and sometimes another! But this is no common creature;” and it was with a look of new interest and sympathy on his face that he proceeded with the ceremony,—the other couple, a middle-aged86 Irishman, with his more than middle-aged bride, standing quietly by, and looking on with a vague sort of wonder in their ugly, impassive faces, as if it struck them oddly that Indians should marry.
The book of the marriage-records was kept in Father Gaspara's own rooms, locked up and hidden even from his old housekeeper87. He had had bitter reason to take this precaution. It had been for more than one man's interest to cut leaves out of this old record, which dated back to 1769, and had many pages written full in the hand of Father Junipero himself.
As they came out of the chapel, Father Gaspara leading the way, the Irish couple shambling along shamefacedly apart from each other, Alessandro, still holding Ramona's hand in his, said, “Will you ride, dear? It is but a step.”
“No, thanks, dear Alessandro, I would rather walk,” she replied; and Alessandro slipping the bridles88 of the two horses over his left arm, they walked on. Father Gaspara heard the question and answer, and was still more puzzled.
Father Gaspara was a well-born man, and in his home in Spain had been used to associations far superior to any which he had known in his Californian life, A gentle courtesy of tone and speech, such as that with which Alessandro had addressed Ramona, was not often heard in his parish. When they entered his house, he again regarded them both attentively90. Ramona wore on her head the usual black shawl of the Mexican women. There was nothing distinctive91, to the Father's eye, in her figure or face. In the dim light of the one candle,—Father Gaspara allowed himself no luxuries,—the exquisite92 coloring of her skin and the deep blue of her eyes were not to be seen. Alessandro's tall figure and dignified93 bearing were not uncommon94. The Father had seen many as fine-looking Indian men. But his voice was remarkable95, and he spoke better Spanish than was wont96 to be heard from Indians.
“Where are you from?” said the Father, as he held his pen poised97 in hand, ready to write their names in the old raw-hide-bound book.
“Temecula, Father,” replied Alessandro.
Father Gaspara dropped his pen. “The village the Americans drove out the other day?” he cried.
“Yes, Father.”
Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge from his excitement, as usual, in pacing the floor. “Go! go! I'm done with you! It's all over,” he said fiercely to the Irish bride and groom98, who had given him their names and their fee, but were still hanging about irresolute99, not knowing if all were ended or not. “A burning shame! The most dastardly thing I have seen yet in this land forsaken100 of God!” cried the Father. “I saw the particulars of it in the San Diego paper yesterday.” Then, coming to a halt in front of Alessandro, he exclaimed: “The paper said that the Indians were compelled to pay all the costs of the suit; that the sheriff took their cattle to do it. Was that true?”
“Yes, Father,” replied Alessandro.
The Father strode up and down again, plucking at his beard. “What are you going to do?” he said. “Where have you all gone? There were two hundred in your village the last time I was there.”
“Some have gone over into Pachanga,” replied Alessandro, “some to San Pasquale, and the rest to San Bernardino.”
“Body of Jesus! man! But you take it with philosophy!” stormed Father Gaspara.
Alessandro did not understand the word “philosophy,” but he knew what the Father meant. “Yes, Father,” he said doggedly101. “It is now twenty-one days ago. I was not so at first. There is nothing to be done.”
Ramona held tight to Alessandro's hand. She was afraid of this fierce, black-bearded priest, who dashed back and forth102, pouring out angry invectives.
“The United States Government will suffer for it!” he continued. “It is a Government of thieves and robbers! God will punish them. You will see; they will be visited with a curse,—a curse in their borders; their sons and their daughters shall be desolate! But why do I prate103 in these vain words? My son, tell me your names again;” and he seated himself once more at the table where the ancient marriage-record lay open.
After writing Alessandro's name, he turned to Ramona. “And the woman's?” he said.
Alessandro looked at Ramona. In the chapel he had said simply, “Majella.” What name should he give more?
Without a second's hesitation104, Ramona answered, “Majella. Majella Phail is my name.”
She pronounced the word “Phail,” slowly. It was new to her. She had never seen it written; as it lingered on her lips, the Father, to whom also it was a new word, misunderstood it, took it to be in two syllables105, and so wrote it.
The last step was taken in the disappearance106 of Ramona. How should any one, searching in after years, find any trace of Ramona Ortegna, in the woman married under the name of “Majella Fayeel”?
“No, no! Put up your money, son,” said Father Gaspara, as Alessandro began to undo107 the knots of the handkerchief in which his gold was tied. “Put up your money. I'll take no money from a Temecula Indian. I would the Church had money to give you. Where are you going now?”
“To San Pasquale, Father.”
“Ah! San Pasquale! The head man there has the old pueblo108 paper,” said Father Gaspara. “He was showing it to me the other day. That will, it may be, save you there. But do not trust to it, son. Buy yourself a piece of land as the white man buys his. Trust to nothing.”
Alessandro looked anxiously in the Father's face. “How is that, Father?” he said. “I do not know.”
“Well, their rules be thick as the crabs109 here on the beach,” replied Father Gaspara; “and, faith, they appear to me to be backwards110 of motion also, like the crabs: but the lawyers understand. When you have picked out your land, and have the money, come to me, and I will go with you and see that you are not cheated in the buying, so far as I can tell; but I myself am at my wit's ends with their devices. Farewell, son! Farewell, daughter!” he said, rising from his chair. Hunger was again getting the better of sympathy in Father Gaspara, and as he sat down to his long-deferred supper, the Indian couple faded from his mind; but after supper was over, as he sat smoking his pipe on the veranda, they returned again, and lingered in his thoughts,—lingered strangely, it seemed to him; he could not shake off the impression that there was something unusual about the woman. “I shall hear of them again, some day,” he thought. And he thought rightly.
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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graveyard
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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8
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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13
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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14
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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15
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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16
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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17
lariat
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| n.系绳，套索；v.用套索套捕 | |
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18
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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19
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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20
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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21
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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22
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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23
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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24
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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25
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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26
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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27
reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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28
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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29
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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30
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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promontories
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| n.岬，隆起，海角( promontory的名词复数 ) | |
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rifts
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| n.裂缝( rift的名词复数 )；裂隙；分裂；不和 | |
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34
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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35
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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36
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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39
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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40
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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41
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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42
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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43
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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44
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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45
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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46
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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47
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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48
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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49
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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50
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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51
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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52
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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53
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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54
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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55
adobe
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| n.泥砖，土坯，美国Adobe公司 | |
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56
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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57
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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59
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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60
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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61
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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62
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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63
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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64
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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66
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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67
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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68
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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69
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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70
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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71
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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72
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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73
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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74
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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75
savoring
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的现在分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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76
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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77
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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78
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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79
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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80
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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81
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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82
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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83
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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84
plaza
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| n.广场，市场 | |
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85
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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86
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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87
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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88
bridles
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| 约束( bridle的名词复数 )； 限动器； 马笼头； 系带 | |
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89
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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90
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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91
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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92
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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93
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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94
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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95
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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96
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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97
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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98
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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99
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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100
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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101
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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102
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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103
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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104
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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105
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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106
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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107
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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108
pueblo
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| n.（美国西南部或墨西哥等）印第安人的村庄 | |
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109
crabs
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| n.蟹( crab的名词复数 )；阴虱寄生病；蟹肉v.捕蟹( crab的第三人称单数 ) | |
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110
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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