sed his hat, regardless of the
place.

It was, however, no part of Mazzolin's policy to allow him for one
moment to forget the reverence due the marble images that looked so
calmly down from their niches, and with a stern glance he pointed to
them, crossing himself as he did so. Juan went down on his knees,
and with an "Ave Maria," and a Mexican dollar (which he laid on the
altar), quieted his conscience.

"Senor Austin is in the Calaboose," he said, after a pause.

Mazzolin started, and looked keenly at him, as if striving to read his
inmost thoughts.

"You must be mistaken. Juan; there is no mention of it in my letter?"
he said, in a tone of one fearing to believe good news.

"Not at all, Padre. We started together--there were fifteen of us--and
after we had come a long way, so far as Saltillo, some of Santa Anna's
cavaleros overtook us, and carried Senor Americano back with them, and
said they had orders to do it, for he was no friend to our nation. I
know, for I heard for myself."

"Do you know the particular reason of his arrest?"

Juan shook his head, and replied, "That the officers did not say."

"Did you mention to any one your having a letter for me?"

"No, Padre; I tell no man what does not concern him."

"A wise plan, Juan, I would advise you always to follow; and be
very careful that you say nothing to any one about my letter: I
particularly desire it."

"Intiendo," said Juan, turning toward the door. "I go to my ranche
to-morrow, but come back before many sunsets, and if you want me
again, Padre, you know where to find me."

"The blessing of the Holy Virgin rest upon you, my son, and reward you
for your services in behalf of the church."

"Adios!" And they parted.

Father Mazzolin drew forth the letter, and read it attentively for
the third time, then held it over one of the twelve candles, and
deliberately burnt it, muttering the while, "Ashes tell no tales."

Extinguishing the candles and locking the door of the church, he said
to himself:

"All is as I foresaw; a breach is made which can only be closed by
the bodies of hundreds of these cursed heretics; and Santa Anna is
bloodthirsty enough to drain the last drop. Alphonso Mazzolin, canst
thou not carve thy fortune in the coming storm? Yea, and I will. I am
no unworthy follower of Loyola, of Gavier, and of Bobadillo. Patience!
a Cardinal's cap shall crown my labors;" and with a chuckling laugh he
entered the narrow street which led t