“Saints preserve thee, Pancho!  Of whom dost thou speak?”

“Listen, Juanita.  It was a year ago, the eve of Natividad, he was in the church when I sang.  Look where I would, I always met his eye.  When the canticle was sung and I was slipping into the sacristy, he was beside me.  He spoke kindly, but I understood him not.  He put into my hand gold for an aguinaldo.  I pretended I understood not that also, and put it into the box for the poor.  He smiled and went away.  Often have I seen him since, and last night, when I left the Mission, he was there again with Father Pedro.”

“And Father Pedro, what said he of him?” asked Juanita.

“Nothing.”  The boy hesitated.  “Perhaps—­because I said nothing of the stranger.”

Juanita laughed.  “So thou canst keep a secret from the good father when thou carest.  But why dost thou think this stranger is my new guardian?”

“Dost thou not see, little sister? he was even then seeking thee,” said the boy with joyous excitement.  “Doubtless he knew we were friends and playmates—­may be the good father has told him thy secret.  For it is no idle tale of the alcalde, believe me.  I see it all!  It is true!”

“Then thou wilt let him take me away,” exclaimed the girl bitterly, withdrawing the little hand he had clasped in his excitement.

“Alas, Juanita, what avails it now?  I am sent to San Jose, charged with a letter to the Father Superior, who will give me further orders.  What they are, or how long I must stay, I know not.  But I know this:  the good Father Pedro’s eyes were troubled when he gave me his blessing, and he held me long in his embrace.  Pray Heaven I have committed no fault.  Still it may be that the reputation of my gift hath reached the Father Superior, and he would advance me.”  And Francisco’s eyes lit up with youthful pride at the thought.

Not so Juanita.  Her black eyes snapped suddenly with suspicion, she drew in her breath, and closed her little mouth firmly.  Then she began a crescendo.

Mother of God! was that all?  Was he a child, to be sent away for such time or for such purpose as best pleased the fathers?  Was he to know no more than that?  With such gifts as God had given him, was he not at least to have some word in disposing of them?  Ah!  She would not stand it.

The boy gazed admiringly at the piquant energy of the little figure before him, and envied her courage.  “It is the mestizo blood,” he murmured to himself.  Then aloud, “Thou shouldst have been a man, ’Nita.”

“And thou a woman.”

“Or a priest.  Eh, what is that?”

They had both risen, Juanita defiantly, her black braids flying as she wheeled and suddenly faced the thicket, Francisco clinging to her with trembling hands and whitened lips.  A stone, loosened from the hillside, had rolled to their feet; there was a crackling in the alders on the slope above them.

“Is it a bear, or a brigand?” whispered Francisco, hurriedly, sounding the uttermost depths of his terror in the two words.