d form of a priest rose up from the shade of a group of scrubby
pinon-trees beside the trail.

Esmond Clarenden lifted his hat in greeting.

"Are you going our way? We can give you a ride," he paused to say.

The man's face was very dark, but it was a young, strong face, and his
large, dark eyes were full of the fire of life. When he spoke his voice
was low and musical.

"I thank you. I go toward the mountains. You stay here long?"

"Only to dispose of my goods. My business is brief," Esmond Clarenden
declared.

The good man leaned forward as if to see each face there, sweeping in
everything at one glance. Then he looked down at the ground.

"These are troublesome days. War is only a temporary evil, but it makes
for hate, and hate kills as it dies. Love lives and gives life." A smile
lighted his eyes, though his lips were firm. "I wish you well. Among
friends or enemies the one haven of safety always is the holy
sanctuary."

Uncle Esmond bowed his head reverently.

"You will find it beside the trail near the river. The walls are very
old and strong, but not so old as hate, nor so strong as love. A little
street runs from it, crooked--six houses away. Peace be to all of you."
He broke off suddenly and his last sentence was spoken in a clear,
strong tone unlike the gentler voice.

"I thank you, Father!" Jondo said, as the priest passed his wagon.

The holy man gave him one swift, searching glance. Then lifting his
right hand as if in blessing, and slowly dropping it until the
forefinger pointed toward the west, he passed on his way.

Jondo's brown cheek flushed and the lines about his mouth grew hard.

"Take my place, Bev," he said, as he left his wagon and joined Esmond
Clarenden.

The two spoke earnestly together. Then Jondo mounted Beverly's pony.

"If you need me--" I heard him say, and he turned away and rode in the
direction the priest had taken.

Uncle Esmond offered no explanation for this sudden action, and his
sunny face was stern.

Usually wagon-trains were spied out long before they reached the city,
and a rabble attended their entry. To-day we moved along quietly until
the trail became a mere walled lane. On either side one-story adobe huts
sat with their backs to the street. No windows opened to the front, and
only a wooden door or a closed gateway stared in blank unfriendliness at
the passer-by. Little straggling lanes led off aimlessly on either side,
as narrow and silent as the strang