of womanly sorrow. She is not without comfort, for the last of the
Peraltas has placed his child's hand in that of Maxime Valois and
whispered his blessing.

"You will be good to my little Dolores, amigo mio," murmurs the old
man. He loves the man whose lance has been couched in his behalf.
The man who saved his life and lands.

Padre Francisco is overjoyed. He noted the drawing near of the young
hearts. A grateful flash, lighting the shining eyes of Dolores, told
the story to Maxime. His defence of her father, his championship
of the family cause, his graceful demeanor fill sweet Dolores' idea
of the perfect "caballero."

The priest with bell, book, and candle, gives all the honors of
the Church to the last lord of Lagunitas. Hard by the chapel, the
old ranchero rests surrounded by the sighing forest. It is singing
the same unvarying song, breathing incense from the altars of nature
over the stout soldier's tomb.

He has fought the fight of his race in vain. When the roses' leaves
drift a second time on the velvet turf, Maxime Valois receives
the hand of Dolores from her mother. The union is blessed by the
invocation of his priestly friend. It is a simple wedding. Bride
and groom are all in all to each other. There are none of the
Valois, and not a Peralta to join in merrymaking.

Padre Francisco and Donna Juanita are happy in the knowledge that the
shy bird of the mountains is mated with the falcon-eyed Creole. He
can defend the lordly heritage of Lagunitas. So, in the rosy summer