her ears and shows them to him--it throbs with
passionate purity in memory yet.

Rezanov sails away to Sitka with provisions,
thence to Siberia, and then begins the long ride over
endless versts of land, across streams in icy flood,
in rain and cold and snow towards the capitol and
the Czar. Delays, disasters to vehicles and horses
and the maddening lengthening of time. From
drenchings and freezing comes the fever that calls
for more speed. Krasnoiarsk is reached. The fever
mounts, the traveler must stop and rest and be
cared for. His visions commingle his objective
and his memories . . . CONCHA! . . . The snowy
steppes and the inky rivers. . . . His servant en-
ters the room in the inn . . . Why . . . "Where
has Jon found Castilian roses in this barren land?"
. . . "and his unconquerably sanguine spirit flared
high before a vision of eternal and unthinkable
happiness" . . . Castilian roses! Concha Arguello
waits among them, immortal, sainted in her purity
and fidelity, ministering to her poor Indians, her
face alight with unquenchable memory and with
surety of an eventual everlasting tryst. Those Cas-
tilian roses! They perfume forever one's mem-
ories of this pair, puissant in faith, in this novel
that is a poem and a shrine of that love which lives
when death itself is dead.

WILLIAM MARION REEDY