“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 impassively 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 God.  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 superstitious 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 God, 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.  But I had no doubts, or I should not have made the attempt.  I know the superstitious nature of sailors, especially when they are drunk.  Shall we gallop back?  They will have eaten all the dulces.”