ing told their names. To
such, under God, I bear my message of salvation."

"But you will starve on the journey."

"I carry food here," touching the bag. "It will suffice; if not, there
are berries and roots in abundance. My Master has always fed me in the
wilderness."

What more could I say or do to change his purpose? It was a girlish
face fronting me, yet the thin lips were pressed tightly together, the
dark eyes fearless and resolute. I laid my hand on Eloise's shoulder.

"It must be as he says," I acknowledged regretfully. "We can but
depart."

She arose slowly to her feet, her eyes still sadly pleading. The
_pere_ gazed questioningly into both our faces, the rigid lines of his
mouth softening.

"My daughter," he said, in calm dignity, "we of a desert priesthood are
ordained unto strange duties, and unusual privileges. Do you love this
man?"

A wave of color surged into her cheeks, as she gave one rapid glance
aside into my face. Then she answered in all simplicity:

"Yes, _pere_, from childhood."

Resting upon his crutch, he touched her with his hand.

"Yet he who perished yonder was your husband. How came you thus to
marry, with your heart elsewhere?"

"It was the desire of my father, and the will of the Church."

He bowed his head, his lips moving in silent prayer for guidance.

"Then the will of the Church hath been done," he said humbly. "Here in
the wilderness we perform the will of God, untrammelled by the councils
of men. 'T is my dispensation to bury the dead, baptize the living,
and join in marriage those of one heart. It is not meet that you two
journey together except with the solemn sanction of Holy Church."

My pulses throbbed, yet I could only look at her, as she stood
trembling, her eyes downcast, her cheeks burning.

"But--but, _pere_, will it be right?" she faltered faintly.

"Let the dead past bury its dead," he answered gravely. "I hold it
right in the name of Christ, from whom I derive authority. Geoffrey
Benteen, take within your own the hand of this woman."

'T is but a dream, our standing there together in the sun; a dream,
those words of the marriage rite spoken by him in the desolation and
silence of the desert. We knelt together upon the stones, hand
clasping hand, while above our bowed heads were uplifted the priest's
thin, white hands in benediction. Whether or not in that hour Andre
Lafossier exceeded his authority I cannot tell. In heart we were