The padre bends searching eyes on the youth as the door opens. The
priest's serious face heightens his thirty-five years. He is worn
by toil as a missionary among the tribes of the Gila--the Apaches
and the wild and brutal Mojaves. Here, among the Piute hill
dwellers, his task is hopeless. This spiritual soil is indeed stony.
Called from the society of Donna Juanita and his laughing pupil,
merry Dolores, he comes to test the religious faith of the young
freebooter--Yankee and Catholic at once.

Maxime's downcast appearance disarms the padre. Not such a terrible
fire-eater! He savors not of infidel Cape Cod.

"My son, you are in trouble," softly says the padre. It is the
first kind word Maxime has heard. The boy's heart is full, so he
speaks freely to the mild-mannered visitor. Padre Francisco listens
to the recital. His eyes sparkle strangely when Valois speaks of
New Orleans.

"Then you understand French?" cries the padre joyously.

"It is my native tongue," rejoins Valois proudly.

"My name before I took orders was Francois Ribaut," says the
overjoyed father. "Hold! I must see Don Miguel. I am a Frenchman
myself." He flies over the plaza, his long robe fluttering behind
him. His quickened steps prove a friendly interest. Maxima's heart
swells within him. The beloved language has unlocked the priestly
heart.