Part 5 (1/2)
Estenega looked at her with the first stab of doubt he had felt. ”She is Spanish in her marrow,” he thought,--”the steadfast unreasoning child of traditions. I could not well be at greater disadvantage. But she is magnificent.”
”Another thing which was unnecessary,” she added, ”was to defend yourself to me or to tell me how you felt toward my brother, and why.
We are enemies by tradition and instinct. We shall rarely meet, and shall probably never talk together again.”
”We shall talk together more times than you will care to count. I have much to say to you, and you shall listen. But we will discuss the matter no further at present. Shall we gallop?”
He spurred his horse, and once more they fled through the pine woods.
Before long they entered the valley of Carmelo. The mountains were ma.s.sive and gloomy, the little bay was blue and quiet, the surf of the ocean roared about Point Lobos, Carmelo River crawled beneath its willows. In the middle of the valley stood the impressive yellow church, with its Roman tower and rose-window; about it were the crumbling brown hovels of the deserted Mission. Once as they rode Estenega thought he heard voices, but could not be sure, so loud was the clatter of the horses' hoofs. As they reached the square they drew rein swiftly, the horses standing upright at the sudden halt. Then strange sounds came to them through the open doors of the church: ribald shouts and loud laughter, curses and noise of smas.h.i.+ng gla.s.s, such songs as never were sung in Carmelo before; an infernal clash of sound which mingled incongruously with the solemn ma.s.s of the surf.
Chonita's eyes flashed. Even Estenega's face darkened: the traditions planted in plastic youth arose and rebelled at the desecration.
”Some drunken sailors,” he said. ”There--do you see that?” A craft rounded Point Lobos. ”Pirates!”
”Holy Mary!” exclaimed Chonita.
”Let down your hair,” he said, peremptorily; ”and follow all that I suggest. We will drive them out.”
She obeyed him without question, excited and interested. Then they rode to the doors and threw them wide.
The upper end of the long church was swarming with pirates; there was no mistaking those bold, cruel faces, blackened by sun and wind, half covered with ragged hair. They stood on the benches, they bestrode the railing, they swarmed over the altar, shouting and carousing in riotous wa.s.sail. Their coa.r.s.e red s.h.i.+rts were flung back from hairy chests, their faces were distorted with rum and sacrilegious delight.
Every station, every candlestick, had been hurled to the floor and trampled upon. The crucifix stood on its head. Sitting high on the altar, reeling and waving a communion goblet, was the drunken chief, singing a blasphemous song of the pirate seas. The voices rumbled strangely down the hollow body of the church; to perfect the scene flames should have leaped among the swinging arms and bounding forms.
”Come,” said Estenega. He spurred his horse, and together they galloped down the stone pavement of the edifice. The men turned at the loud sound of horses' hoofs; but the riders were in their midst, scattering them right and left, before they realized what was happening.
The horses were brought to sudden halt. Estenega rose in his stirrups, his fine bold face looking down impa.s.sively upon the demoniacal gang who could have rent him apart, but who stood silent and startled, gazing from him to the beautiful woman, whose white gown looked part of the white horse she rode. Estenega raised his hand and pointed to Chonita.
”The Virgin,” he said, in a hollow, impressive voice. ”The Mother of G.o.d. She has come to defend her church. Go.”
Chonita's face blanched to the lips, but she looked at the sacrilegists sternly. Fortune favored the audacity of Estenega. The sunlight, drifting through the star-window above the doors at the lower end of the church, smote the uplifted golden head of Chonita, wreathing it with a halo, gifting the face with unearthly beauty.
”Go!” repeated Estenega, ”lest she weep. With every tear a heart will cease to beat.”
The chief scrambled down from the altar and ran like a rat past Chonita, his swollen mouth dropping. The others crouched and followed, stumbling one over the other, their dark evil faces bloodless, their knees knocking together with superst.i.tious terror. They fled from the church and down to the bay, and swam to their craft. Estenega and Chonita rode out. They watched the ugly vessel scurry around Point Lobos; then Chonita spoke for the first time.
”Blasphemer!” she exclaimed. ”Mother of G.o.d, wilt thou ever forgive me?”
”Why not call me a Jesuit? It was a case where mind or matter must triumph. And you can confess your enforced sin, say a hundred aves or so, and be whiter than snow again; whereas, had our Mission of Carmelo been razed to the ground, as it was in a fair way to be, California would have lost an historical monument.”
”And Junipero Serra's bones are there, and it was his favorite Mission,” said the girl, unwillingly.
”Exactly. And now that you are reasonably sure of being forgiven, will not you forgive me? I shall ask no priest's forgiveness.”
She looked at him a moment, then shook her head. ”No: I cannot forgive you for having made me commit what may be a mortal sin. But, Holy Heaven!--I cannot help saying it--you are very quick!”
”For each idea is a moment born. Upon whether we wed the two or think too late depends the success or the failure of our lives.”
”Suppose,” she said, suddenly,--”suppose you had failed, and those men had seized me and made me captive: what then?”
”I should have killed you. Not one of them should have touched you.