hurt. In
fact, he got well. But I've never forgotten that scare."

When Castleton finished his narrative there was a trenchant silence. All
eyes were upon Monty. He looked beaten, disgraced, a disgusted man. Yet
there shone from his face a wonderful admiration for Castleton.

"Dook, you win!" he said; and, dropping his head, he left the camp-fire
circle with the manner of a deposed emperor.

Then the cowboys exploded. The quiet, serene, low-voiced Nels yelled
like a madman and he stood upon his head. All the other cowboys went
through marvelous contortions. Mere noise was insufficient to relieve
their joy at what they considered the fall and humiliation of the tyrant
Monty.

The Englishman stood there and watched them in amused consternation.
They baffled his understanding. Plain it was to Madeline and her friends
that Castleton had told the simple truth. But never on the earth, or
anywhere else, could Nels and his comrades have been persuaded that
Castleton had not lied deliberately to humble their great exponent of
Ananias.

Everybody seemed reluctant to break the camp-fire spell. The logs had
burned out to a great heap of opal and gold and red coals, in the heart
of which quivered a glow alluring to the spirit of dreams. As the blaze
subsided the shadows of the pines encroached darker and darker upon the
circle of fading light. A cool wind fanned the embers, whipped up flakes
of white ashes, and moaned through the trees. The wild yelps of coyotes
were dying in the distance, and the sky was a wonderful dark-blue dome
spangled with white stars.

"What a perfect night!" said Madeline. "This is a night to understand
the dream, the mystery, the wonder of the Southwest. Florence, for long
you have promised to tell us the story of the lost mine of the padres.
It will give us all pleasure, make us understand something of the thrall
in which this land held the Spaniards who discovered it so many years
ago. It will be especially interesting now, because this mountain hides
somewhere under its crags the treasures of the lost mine of the padres."

*****

"In the sixteenth century," Florence began, in her soft, slow voice so
suited to the nature of the legend, "a poor young padre of New Spain was
shepherding his goats upon a hill when the Virgin appeared before him.
He prostrated himself at her feet, and when he looked up she was gone.
But upon the maguey plant near where she had stood there were golden
ashes