the starry deeps, how God could keep so many bright bodies afield up
there, and yet take time to guard all the wandering children of men.

With the day-dawn the strange events of the night seemed as unreal as
the vanishing night-shadows. The bluest skies of a blue-sky land curved
in fathomless majesty over the yellow valley of the Santa Fé. Against
its borders loomed the silent mountain ranges--purple-shaddowed,
silver-topped Ortiz and Jemez, Sandia and Sangre-de-Christo. Dusty and
deserted lay the trail, save that here and there a group of dark-faced
carriers of firewood prodded on their fagot-laden burros toward the
distant town. As our wagons halted at the sandy borders of an arroyo the
brown-clad form of a priest rose up from the shade of a group of scrubby
piñon-trees beside the trail.

Esmond Clarenden lifted his hat in greeting.

"Are you going our way? We can give you a ride," he paused to say.

The man's face was very dark, but it was a young, strong face, and his
large, dark eyes were full of the fire of life. When he spoke his voice
was low and musical.

"I thank you. I go toward the mountains. You stay here long?"

"Only to dispose of my goods. My business is brief," Esmond Clarenden
declared.

The good man leaned forward as if to see each face there, sweeping in
everything at one glance. Then he looked down at the ground.