"Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope
The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence
The life o' the building."
The breakfast table at the San Rosario Ranch was usually a merry one;
but on the morning after what Hal had called Millicent's "magnetic
exhibition," the usual good spirits were missing. Millicent took her
accustomed place at Deering's side; and Galbraith marked the
extraordinary change which she had suffered since she had bade him
good-night the evening before. Her face had blanched to a whiteness
which made the ebon lines of eyebrows and lashes seem unnatural. Her
mouth was pale and contracted, and her expression of horrified
anticipation reminded him of the look in the eyes of a deer at bay.
What could have come to the girl? he asked himself in dismay; with a
strange consciousness that whatever should befall her of good or evil
from that time forth would have to him an interest beyond all else in
the world. She ate her breakfast mechanically, and answered all that
was said in which she could be supposed to have an interest. She
laughed once, too, at one of Hal's jokes; but the sound was rough and
strained. Mrs. Deering and Barbara, occupied with some household
complication, merely noticed that Millicent seemed tired; and Hal put
her odd look and manner down to the score of her being in love, which in
his eyes accounted for every freak or unexplained symptom of hers.
It had been proposed that the day should be spent out-of-doors, at a
place which Millicent had long wished to visit,--the little island in
the river, below the deserted mill. Galbraith had remained to be of the
party; and his two friends had promised to ride over from the camp and
join them at the appointed place. Just before they started, old John
arrived with a note to Mrs. Deering from Graham, who wrote that he
should not be able to be of the party. Hal and Millicent drove
together, as they had done on that day when Graham, in accordance with
California etiquette, had stopped to kill the rattlesnakes. Old Sphinx
was doing his best to keep up with the mule team, when Millicent's
sensitive ears detected the sound of horses' hoofs behind them.
Presently, through the thick cloud of dust, she descried two horsemen
riding at full gallop towards them. The sunlight and the veil of dust
made it impossible to see what manner of men they were until Millicent
observed that each carried over his shoulder a long object, which
glittered in the sunlight.
"Have you brought your pistols?" she asked.
"Yes, Princess, but they are in the wagon. I expected till the last
moment that Graham would turn up to take you, and that I should drive
the team. Why do you ask? There is no danger of our being molested."
"Look at those men. Are not those gun barrels I see on their
shoulders?"
"Yes; but they are probably peaceful hunters."
The young man spoke in a perfectly careless tone, to reassure his
companion; but Millicent noticed that he occasionally looked behind him
as the riders gained on them. Finally, as the men drew near, Millicent
saw the rider nearest her shift the gun from his shoulder and rest it
across the saddle-bow, as if preparing to take aim. Hal, who had seen
the action, instantly called to Millicent to catch the reins, and held
up both his hands. By this time the men were close upon them, and the
one who had shifted his weapon called out in a rough voice,--
"All right, boss; we know you ain't got no money, and we don't want your
life to-day." His companion laughed aloud, and striking spurs to their
horses, they galloped down the high-road. Hal laughed as heartily as
the supposed highwayman, saying,--
"Well, that's a greaser's idea of a joke, I suppose. Adventure number
one has befallen us with few bad consequences. I don't think you were
half as frightened as you were the other day by the snakes."
"No, I fancy I was not. I should not much mind being killed to-day."
This with a little, bitter laugh.
"And why? Let us wait till after luncheon. Barbara has put up a capital
venison pasty,--a real English one, out of the Queen's own receipt
book."
"Well, we will wait for the pie, to please you."
The drive was accomplished with the usual desultory chit-chat, Hal doing
rather more than his share of the joking. As they passed the little
hovel, the wild children ran out, as they had upon the day when they had
visited the camp in the woods; and soon the gray bridge and the little
island were reached. The baskets were unpacked and the luncheon spread
upon the grass by the time the guests arrived. Among them were O'Neil,
Hartley, Ferrara, and Mrs. Shallop, who had come over by the train; with
a party of people from the village, in whom Millicent had never taken
much interest. Galbraith never left Millicent's side; sparing her the
necessity of talking by keeping up an incessant stream of conversation
which she heard vaguely, and of which she understood not one word. In
after days the import of all the young man said came back to her; and
she remembered the quaint Indian legends, the reminiscences of life on
the two edges of the continent, with which Maurice Galbraith kept the
others of the party from her side. She realized what he was doing, and
knew that he only, in all the company, understood and sympathized with
her half-dazed mood; and for his efforts he received more than one
little smile, sadder than tears.
This is one of the stories which the lawyer told her:--
"In the old days, when Father Junipero and his small band of priests and
soldiers came into the wilderness of California, with the cross uplifted
in one hand, the sword grasped in the other, there lived on this island
where we now sit, a beautiful Indian maiden. Her name was a very long
one, and its meaning in our language is the Smile of the Morning. She
lived with the old chief, her father, in a wigwam, where also lived her
sisters and brothers and various of her cousins and distant relatives.
The old chief had many daughters, but the Smile of the Morning was his
favorite child; and she it was who cooked his food for him, when he did
not eat it raw, and brought him his bow and arrows when he started on a
hunting party. The sisters of the favorite daughter all found mates
among the sons of the tribe, but she lived alone with only the wild bird
in the madrone tree for her lover. Her sisters, each of whom carried a
pappoose upon her back, laughed at the Smile of the Morning, and said
that she would die without a husband; but the girl did not mind them.
She was taller, by a head, than any woman of the tribe; she could charm
the wild birds, and draw the feathers from their tails to make
head-dresses for the old chief and ornaments for herself; she could
dance war-dances like one of the braves, only with more grace; and when
she told the stories which the fishes in the river whispered to her, the
old chieftain nodded his head wisely and patted the girl on the
shoulder. She should find a husband in good time; but he must be as
much taller and stronger than the other men of the tribe, as she was
fairer and wiser than her sisters.
"When the missionary priests came, with their white faces and strange
garments fashioned neither from the skin of any animal nor from the
feathers of any bird, and made friendly overtures to the old chief, the
Smile of the Morning fell upon her face in terror. The Indians would
have worshipped the men with the white faces and strange tongue; but to
prove to them that they too were men and adored a God, the priests held
their services and kneeled to the Great Spirit whom they reverenced.
When the new-comers had learned the language of the Indians, and had
built themselves a house and a greater house to their God, the daughter
of the chief grew to be no longer afraid of the black-robed figures.
She eagerly learned the simple lessons which they set for the people;
and it was because of the wonderful learning that they gave her that she
studied so industriously, and not, like her brothers and sisters, to
gain the daily rations of corn. When the early bell called the Indians
to the church of the San Rosario Mission, the Smile of the Morning was
the first to answer the summons; and when the other Indians were
squabbling over their breakfast of maize, she lingered in the sanctuary,
trying to fathom the strange rites which were so much holier than those
of her people, looking into the painted faces in the pictures over the
rude altar, and feeling curiously behind them to ascertain whether the
backs also were painted.
"The soldiers who upheld the authority of the priests were encouraged by
large bounties and grants of land to marry the converted squaws; and in
the course of time several such unions were solemnized at the Mission.
Among the stern old pioneer priests was one young man dear to the Father
Junipero, whose pupil he had been, and who had followed the famous man
on his great mission of converting the heathen Indians. His name was
Fra Antonio. His voice was soft and low, and his eyes open and sad,
with shadows in them, which the Indian maiden had never seen in other
eyes,--shadows like those cast by the white clouds floating before the
sun's face on hot summer afternoons. Fra Antonio was very kind to the
tall beauty of the tribe, and with a never-failing patience strove to
make the doctrines of his religion clear to her simple understanding.
Strange were the means by which the fathers learned to expound their
religion to the savages. To express the great hope of the resurrection,
they put a number of insects in a vessel of water, leaving them there
till they were apparently quite dead. Then the creatures were placed in
a bank of hot ashes, which warmed their frozen, half-dead bodies back to
life. When the gauzy wings were spread, carrying the insects up into
the sunshine again, the fathers marked the words ejaculated by the
Indians, and by that term they called the resurrection.
"New and beautiful were the thoughts which now possessed the mind of the
Indian girl. She learned that to forgive was nobler than to
avenge,--strangest of all doctrines taught by the priests to the red
men. She learned that the stars, pale and fiery, were great worlds like
the one in which she lived, and not the hearts of the brave chiefs
placed in the heavens after death as she had always been taught. Only
the simplest of the great truths which lie like jewels in the tawdry
setting of the Mother Church, did Fra Antonio instil into her childish
mind, which with an unquestioning faith accepted all the young priest
taught. Few among the tribe--perhaps, indeed, no one of the Indians
beside the Smile of the Morning--understood or believed the new
doctrines taught by the priests. These were satisfied that the rites of
baptism and of extreme unction were administered, and that the daily
services were attended, quite conscious that their most potent weapon of
conversion was the ration of _atole_, or prepared corn, which they
served out to the lazy braves. As soon as he became a member of the
church, every redskin was cared for, and a gentle slavery was the
result, in which the priests exacted a certain amount of labor from the
Indian, in turn feeding him and caring for his wants. The art of
weaving was taught, together with civilized agriculture; and the fruit
of the vines was fermented into strong, rough wine, this being reserved
for the service of the altar and the table of the priests. In the eyes
of the zealous missionaries the Indian was the rightful owner of the
soil; and there was no thought of disputing his claim to it. It was
that he might better and more wisely enjoy the fruits of his own land,
and in the next life enter the happier home prepared for all true
followers of the Church of Rome, that the Father Junipero and his band
of soldiers and priests lived and died in the wilderness of California.
How their treatment of the original inhabitants of the soil differed
from that adopted by the enlightened race which now claims the country,
you have seen enough, or at any rate heard enough, of our Indian policy
to appreciate. Instead of improving the land for its owners, as did the
brave missionary priests, we have wrested it from them, driving the
children of those who for centuries have owned the Pacific coast away
from the choicest spots to rocky, desolate lands which have again been
taken from them by the greedy gold-hunters. But all this has happened
since the time when the Smile-of the Morning lived upon this pretty
island, and decked her glossy hair with a coronet of blue-jays'
feathers, that she might be fair in the eyes of one whom she loved. But
a year had passed since the arrival of Fra Antonio, when the old
chieftain noticed that his daughter's step had grown heavy and slow;
that her great eyes danced no more; that her countenance no longer
merited the name of the morning's smile. He was a wise old man for an
Indian; and after thinking the matter over for a week, during which time
he smoked an unusual number of pipes of tobacco, he came to the
conclusion that the girl had been bewitched by one of the strange
priests. Calling her to him, he questioned her as to the cause of her
altered behavior; and from her downcast face and embarrassed replies he
quickly surmised her secret. The Smile of the Morning loved the fair
young priest, and it was for his sake that her tears flowed. The old
chief at first scoffed at her infatuation, and bade her take up with one
of her dusky suitors. But the girl was obstinate; and finally yielding
to her whim, the old chief himself offered his daughter's hand to Fra
Antonio. The young priest, in holy horror, took counsel with his
superiors; and it was explained to the chieftain that though the white
soldiers were free to mate with the maidens of the tribe, the priests
were vowed to celibacy. If the pious young priest had unwittingly
mingled an unwise fervor in his exhortations to the Indian girl, he
bitterly regretted his fault. As day by day he saw her elastic figure
grow more feeble, and marked her hollow cheeks and her sad eyes fixed
reproachfully on him whilst he served the mass or taught the new
converts, a tenderness for her, which her savage health and perfections
had failed to arouse, awoke in his breast. When he saw the young
braves, each with his dusky partner, and the sisters of the Smile of the
Morning with their children in their arms, he sometimes cursed the
priestly habit which proclaimed him a thing apart from all other of
God's creatures, doomed to live unmated and alone. Long vigils and
heavy penances failed to ease the grief in his heart, or to set at rest
its yearning toward the child who had been redeemed from barbarism,
through his teaching, to live a Christian life and die in the hope of
his faith.
"At last the battle between the spirit and the heart grew too terrible
for him to bear; he was not strong enough; and he begged the fathers to
send him to another Mission far to the northward. When the Smile of the
Morning learned that Fra Antonio was to leave the Mission on the morrow,
she decked herself in all her jewels, hung her long shell necklaces
about her throat, wound her bead bracelets about her arms, and placed
her coronet of blue-jays' feathers upon her brow. She was not to be
found that night when the old chief lay down to rest; and when the sun
rose on the day which should see Fra Antonio far on his long journey,
her sisters found the maiden lying in the cool waters of the river which
washes this island, with the little rosary the priest had given her
locked in her cold fingers, and the smile upon her face that had been
missing for so many weeks. They called the fathers to come and look
upon her; and Fra Antonio prayed long beside her, with streaming eyes
and broken voice. The kiss which his sad lips laid reverently on her
brow was felt perhaps, for all those who stood near heard the sigh which
came rustling through the trees near by. As she had wilfully taken her
own life, the poor girl could not be buried with the ceremonies of the
church to which she had been admitted; so she was interred by her people
near the spot where they had found her, on this little island where we
now sit. When the good fathers sat together of an evening and discussed
questions spiritual and temporal touching the welfare of their little
flock, Fra Antonio was often missing from their midst. Sometimes the
faint sound was heard of the church bell softly struck by a tender hand,
and the priests crossed themselves silently, knowing for whose soul it
was that Fra Antonio solemnized the mass for the dead."
A silence followed Galbraith's story, which was broken by Millicent, who
said,--
"I have a sketch in an old Italian book of a beautiful young monk, Fra
Antonio by name. Could it be the same, I wonder?"
"Who knows? Some of the priests were Italians. Would the dates agree?"
"The portrait was dated some time in the latter part of the last
century."
"It could not have been far from that time that the Smile of the Morning
met her sad fate."
"Sad,--do you call her fate sad?" queried Millicent.
"Who could think it otherwise?"
"I surely do. Was it sad to die for the man she loved?"
"It would have been happier if she could have lived for him."
"Happiness! Who spoke of happiness? Why talk about a thing so
mythical? I think her lot was an enviable one. To her simple mind the
thought that suicide is sinful could never have occurred. She might not
follow the man she loved; she believed that the soul now prisoned in her
breast might always be near him; so she opened the cage and let the bird
fly."
"You speak as seriously as if you had known the Smile of the Morning and
sympathized with her."
"It is the privilege of those who have greatly suffered, that the grief
of others can be felt and understood by them." Millicent spoke
absently, dreamily, checking her speech at the pained expression which
her words brought to Galbraith's face.
Later in the afternoon the party left the island and wandered about the
old bridge. Some of them climbed the high hill; others struck into the
woods. By some chance Millicent found herself left alone near the mill
with no one of the party near her save Ah Lam. Calling the faithful
creature to her side, she made him prepare her a comfortable seat, and
leaning back against the wall, she entered into a desultory conversation
with her pupil. Ah Lam often told her stories in his broken English,
descriptive of the power and character of the most august personages of
the Chinese mythology. To-day he found an inattentive listener in his
kind friend and teacher; but he had been bidden to speak, and so he
talked on patiently, describing rites of death and feasts of marriages,
recalling the great river _fete_ which he had witnessed shortly before
sailing from his native city. As the Chinaman paused after this last
tale, Millicent heard a step approaching the door of the old mill. She
looked up carelessly, expecting to see one of the gentlemen. The man
who stood before her was a stranger. His face was somewhat flushed, and
he looked as if he had travelled some distance.
"Second time, my lady, I've see'd yer purty face to-day."
Millicent bowed her head and turned away, looking anxiously toward the
wood, where she had seen Hal disappear a few moments before.
"Sha'n't let yer off ser aisy this time. I've took a fancy to see the
color of yer eyes."
The look of angry indignation with which the gray orbs were turned upon
the man was enough to have abashed any sensitive person, but to this
class the stranger did not belong. He was a rough-looking fellow of
large stature, with a heavy animal face, crossed by a deep scar running
from the chin to the forehead on the right side. In his belt he wore a
pair of pistols, at which the Chinaman looked uneasily.
"Say, do yer belong in these parts?"
"Yes," answered the girl in a low voice.
"Well, I am leavin' 'em for good; we're not likely to meet again. I 'm
a gentleman, and I don't want to trouble you for them rings o' yourn,
but a kiss won't cost you nothin'."
Suiting the action to the word, the man threw an arm about the girl's
slender waist, and quick as a thought began to drag her toward the spot
where a couple of horses were tethered. With a sudden wrench, she shook
herself free from his rude clasp, and sped down the path calling for
help. Help was nearer to her than she had thought, and a humble friend
sprang to her aid. As the insolent creature started in pursuit of the
swift-footed girl, Ah Lam adroitly tripped him up, bringing him to the
ground with a heavy fall. The man was somewhat bruised by his tumble, a
sharp stone having struck his arm. He arose with difficulty, pouring
out a volley of oaths the like of which had never before desecrated
Millicent's ears. The Chinaman, knowing full well the danger which his
temerity had brought upon him, ran quickly after his young mistress.
The path brought them to the border of the stream, and their flight was
stopped by this obstacle. By this time, the man, blind with rage, had
caught up with the two fugitives; he seemed in doubt which of them to
molest first. Millicent stood with flashing eyes and curling lip, her
head thrown back, her arms folded across her breast, looking at him with
an expression of scorn that seemed to awe him for a moment. He drew
back, as if afraid to touch so beautiful and wrathful a creature, and in
his rage clutched the Chinaman by the throat. In the scuffle which
ensued, Ah Lam's hat was thrown off, and the long cue coiled about his
head fell down. Quick as thought, the ruffian seized the braid, and
drawing a sharp knife from his boot, cut it from the head of the
Chinaman. With a shriek which had the despair of a double death, the
Chinaman turned and implanted his finger-nails in the face of his
adversary, inflicting ten long scratches on the cheeks. The crushed
worm will turn at last; and the poor soul, damned for eternity by the
cutting of his hair, had turned upon the ruffian. Quick as the
fast-drawn breath of the terrified girl, the villain lifted his long
knife and, with a horrible oath, plunged it into the side of the
Chinaman. The shrieks of the victim, the horror-stricken screams of the
girl, the sight of the blood, seemed to madden the wretch; for he tore
the quivering knife from the wound and stabbed him again and again. At
last the rage for blood seemed satiated; he threw the mutilated body,
still breathing, to ebb out its life on the soil, and turned with bloody
hands and seared eyes toward Millicent, who had sunk upon her knees,
lifting the head of the dying Chinaman to her young breast.
The closed lids fluttered open, the dimmed eyes looked gratefully for
the last time into the face of the girl who had been kinder to him than
any other creature in this strange land where he had worked so
faithfully, where he had been so cruelly oppressed in life, and so
foully murdered; hope of Heaven being closed to him before his miserable
breath had been taken. The horror of his crime must have overcome the
ruffian for a moment, for he paused and silently watched the
death-agonies of his victim. To that moment's feeling of horror or
remorse, what might not Millicent owe? For soon, to her it seemed an
eternity, the men, whose answering shouts she had not heard, appeared
close at hand. The murderer saw them none too quickly for his safety,
and springing upon his horse, which stood near by, clapped spurs to the
flank and rode off at a hand gallop in the opposite direction.
Galbraith rushed to Millicent's side and lifted the dying creature from
her breast. They placed him gently upon the bank, and Hal put his flask
to his lips; but it was too late. With one last struggle Ah Lam yielded
up his miserable life; and Millicent's cry of pity sounded his
death-knell. Then she lifted her hands to Heaven and prayed for the
soul of the poor creature who had so bravely defended her. An hour ago
she had smiled at Fra Antonio's masses for the repose of the Smile of
the Morning. In moments like these the strong instincts of men and
women overcome the reasons and doctrines of education; Millicent prayed,
believing that she should be heard.
When it became evident to the little group which had silently assembled
about the spot, that poor Ah Lam was beyond human help, Maurice
Galbraith and Henry Deering lifted the lifeless body and laid it in the
great wagon. Millicent followed and drew over the dead face the white
cloak which she had worn all that day. Pedro, climbing to his seat,
touched the mules into motion; and the wagon, which had carried so merry
a freight to the gray bridge that morning, returned at sunset over the
same path with its ghastly burden,--a very funeral car.
Maurice Galbraith gently placed Millicent beside Barbara and her mother
in the smaller carriage, which was driven back to the Ranch under the
escort of Ferrara, O'Neil, and Hartley. Then the young lawyer, with
Henry Deering to bear him company, started in pursuit of the murderer.
He had sworn a silent oath, as he stood by the dying man, and learned
that his life had been given to protect Millicent, that Ah Lam should be
avenged. If there were law and justice in the broad land of California,
the murderer should surfer the extreme penalty for wilful and wicked
shedding of innocent blood. In pursuit rode the two young men, with
stern faces; and it was well for the fugitive that he had a long start
of them, for they rode as men do when time must be gained at all costs.
Along the narrow bridle-path, over which the murderer had passed, they
took their way, and were soon lost to the view of the three women
sitting close together in troubled silence. Barbara's strong hands held
the reins and plied the whip, while streams of tears coursed down her
cheeks. Mrs. Deering patted her daughter's shoulder; but it was on
Millicent her attention was most firmly fixed. The girl had not moved
since Galbraith had placed her in the carriage. Her eyes were strained
wide open, and the expression in their depths was one which the gentle
woman never forgot,--a look as of an endless despair and horror. Back
to the happy valley they drove silently, no joyous young voices
carolling out ballads of love, songs of battle, as was their wont; in
silence and grief they passed over the familiar road through the gap
between the guardian hills, back to the quiet house, to herald the
advent of the humble dead to those who had been his fellow-servants.
No one told Millicent that standing near the spot where the ruffian's
horse had been tethered was a second steed. A strong mustang saddled
and bridled was found there. A heavy leading-rein passed through the
bit, and a stout rope lying over the saddle, gave a sinister
significance to the fact. For whom had that horse been brought?