beginning to swell big and yellow through the trees. Twilight was
darkening into night. Bill Banney and Rex Krane had joined us now, for
every hour we were learning to keep closer together. Jondo threw more
wood on the fire, and we nestled about it in snug, homey fashion as if
we were to listen to a fairy-tale--three children slipping fast out of
childhood into the stern, hard plains life that tried men's souls. As we
listened, the older men told of the perils as well as the fascinating
adventures of trail life, that we might understand what lay before us in
the unknown days. And then they told us stories of the plains, and of
the quaint historic things of Santa Fé; of El Palacio, home of all the
Governors of New Mexico; an Indian pueblo first, it may have been
standing there when William the Norman conquered Harold of the Saxon
dynasty of England; or further back when Charlemagne was hanging heathen
by the great great gross to make good Christians of them; or even when
old Julius Cæsar came and saw and conquered, on either side of the
Rubicon, this same old structure may have sheltered rulers in a world
unknown. They told us of the old, old church of San Miguel, a citadel
for safety from the savage foes of Spain, a sanctuary ever for the
sinful and sorrowing ones. And of the Plaza--sacred ground whereon by
ceremonial form had been established deeds that should change the
destinies of tribes and shape the trend of national pride and power in a
new continent. And of La Garita, place of execution, facing whose blind
wall the victims of the Spanish rule made their last stand, and,
helpless, fell pierced by the bullets of the Spanish soldiery.

And we children looked into the dying camp-fire and builded there our
own castles in Spain, and hoped that that old flag to which we had
thrown good-by kisses such a little while ago would one day really wave
above old Santa Fé and make it ours to keep. For, young as we were, the
flag already symbolized to us the protecting power of a nation strong