The soldiers escorted the culprits to the corridor; two held the horse while they descended, then led it away, and Andreo and Pilar were alone with the priest.  The bridegroom placed his arm about the bride and looked defiantly at Padre Arroyo, but Pilar drew her long hair about her face and locked her hands together.

Padre Arroyo folded his arms and regarded them with lowered brows, a sneer on his mouth.

“I have new names for you both,” he said, in his thickest voice.  “Antony, I hope thou hast enjoyed thy honeymoon.  Cleopatra, I hope thy little toes did not get frost-bitten.  You both look as if food had been scarce.  And your garments have gone in good part to clothe the brambles, I infer.  It is too bad you could not wait a year and love in your cabin at the rancheria, by a good fire, and with plenty of frijoles and tortillas in your stomachs.”  He dropped his sarcastic tone, and, rising to his feet, extended his right arm with a gesture of malediction.  “Do you comprehend the enormity of your sin?” he shouted.  “Have you not learned on your knees that the fires of hell are the rewards of unlawful love?  Do you not know that even the year of sackcloth and ashes I shall impose here on earth will not save you from those flames a million times hotter than the mountain fire, than the roaring pits in which evil Indians torture one another?  A hundred years of their scorching breath, of roasting flesh, for a week of love!  Oh, God of my soul!”

Andreo looked somewhat staggered, but unrepentant.  Pilar burst into loud sobs of terror.

The padre stared long and gloomily at the flags of the corridor.  Then he raised his head and looked sadly at his lost sheep.

“My children,” he said solemnly, “my heart is wrung for you.  You have broken the laws of God and of the Holy Catholic Church, and the punishments thereof are awful.  Can I do anything for you, excepting to pray?  You shall have my prayers, my children.  But that is not enough; I cannot—­ay!  I cannot endure the thought that you shall be damned.  Perhaps”—­again he stared meditatively at the stones, then, after an impressive silence, raised his eyes.  “Heaven vouchsafes me an idea, my children.  I will make your punishment here so bitter that Almighty God in His mercy will give you but a few years of purgatory after death.  Come with me.”

He turned and led the way slowly to the rear of the mission buildings.  Andreo shuddered for the first time, and tightened his arm about Pilar’s shaking body.  He knew that they were to be locked in the dungeons.  Pilar, almost fainting, shrank back as they reached the narrow spiral stair which led downward to the cells.  “Ay!  I shall die, my Andreo!” she cried.  “Ay! my father, have mercy!”

“I cannot, my children,” said the padre, sadly.  “It is for the salvation of your souls.”

“Mother of God!  When shall I see thee again, my Pilar?” whispered Andreo.  “But, ay! the memory of that week on the mountain will keep us both alive.”