The Valiant Runaways [12]
shown in as if they had been princes and told to
satisfy themselves. This they did, nor ever uttered a word. The priests
had tactfully withdrawn. Roldan and Adan ate enough beans, rice, cold
chicken, tongue, and dulces to make up for their prolonged fast, and
finished with a cup of chocolate and a bunch of grapes. After that they
went to sleep in two clean little cells, to which they were conducted,
nor awakened until all the air was ringing with the sweet-voiced clangor
of mission bells.
Roldan turned on his elbow and looked out of the window. The square was
rapidly filling with Indians, some running in willingly enough, others
driven in at the end of the leash by the lay brethren. All knelt on the
ground for a few moments. Roldan, whose eyes were very keen, and, during
these days, preternaturally sharpened, noted that several of the Indians
were whispering under cover of the loud mutterings about them. The face
of the Californian Indian is not pleasant to contemplate at any time: it
is either stupid or sinister. Roldan fancied he detected something
particularly evil in the glance of the whispering savages, and resolved
to warn the priests.
The scene was peaceful enough. The cattle browsing on the hills gave the
landscape an air of great repose, and the mountains beyond were lost
under a purple mist. The large stone fountain in the court splashed
lazily. As the worshippers rose and withdrew, the silver bells rang out
a merry peal, announcing that the morrow would be Sunday.
Roldan fell asleep again. When he awoke it was dark outside, but on the
table by his cot was a lighted taper and a dish of fruit. He ate of the
fine grapes and pears, then rose and opened his door. In the small room
beyond a young priest was seated at a table, bending over a large leaf
of parchment, to which he was applying a pen with quick delicate
strokes. He looked up with a smile.
"What are you doing?" asked Roldan, curiously, approaching the table.
"Illuminating the manuscripts of a mass. Look." And he displayed the
exquisite border to the music, the latter written with equal precision
and neatness. "This will be alive when I am not even dust. No one will
know that I did it; but I like the thought that it may live for
centuries."
"If I did it, I should sign my name to it," said Roldan, with his first
prompting of ambition. "But I never could do that; I have not the
patience. I mean to be governor of the Californias."
"I hope you may be," said the young priest, gravely.
"Are all your Indians docile?" asked Roldan, abruptly.
The priest raised his head. "Why do you ask?"
Roldan related his suspicions.
The priest shot a furtive glance through the open window at the dark
square.
"I don't know," he said slowly. "Sometimes I have thought--you see, many
are stubborn and intractable, and have to be flogged and chained.
Privately I think we are wasting our energies. We will leave California
several beautiful monuments for posterity to wonder at, but as for the
Indians we will end where we began. They are always escaping and running
back to the mountains. Their every instinct is for barbarism; they have
not one for civilization, nor can any be planted whose roots will not
trail over the surface. The good Lord intended them to be savages,
nothing more; and it is mistaken sentimentalism--However, it is not for
me to criticise, and I beg, Don Roldan, that you will not repeat what I
have said."
"Of course I shall not; but tell me, do you think there is danger?"
"We have one rather bright young Indian--there are about a dozen
exceptions in all California, and they are treacherous. His name is
Anastacio, and he has great influence with the other Indians. A good
many of them are angry at present because they have been punished for
stealing grapes and stores, and just now they are rather excited because
it has been proposed to banish Anastacio to a Mission where there are
more soldiers,--he is regarded as the inciter of the outrages."
"Have you soldiers here?"
"Eleven.
satisfy themselves. This they did, nor ever uttered a word. The priests
had tactfully withdrawn. Roldan and Adan ate enough beans, rice, cold
chicken, tongue, and dulces to make up for their prolonged fast, and
finished with a cup of chocolate and a bunch of grapes. After that they
went to sleep in two clean little cells, to which they were conducted,
nor awakened until all the air was ringing with the sweet-voiced clangor
of mission bells.
Roldan turned on his elbow and looked out of the window. The square was
rapidly filling with Indians, some running in willingly enough, others
driven in at the end of the leash by the lay brethren. All knelt on the
ground for a few moments. Roldan, whose eyes were very keen, and, during
these days, preternaturally sharpened, noted that several of the Indians
were whispering under cover of the loud mutterings about them. The face
of the Californian Indian is not pleasant to contemplate at any time: it
is either stupid or sinister. Roldan fancied he detected something
particularly evil in the glance of the whispering savages, and resolved
to warn the priests.
The scene was peaceful enough. The cattle browsing on the hills gave the
landscape an air of great repose, and the mountains beyond were lost
under a purple mist. The large stone fountain in the court splashed
lazily. As the worshippers rose and withdrew, the silver bells rang out
a merry peal, announcing that the morrow would be Sunday.
Roldan fell asleep again. When he awoke it was dark outside, but on the
table by his cot was a lighted taper and a dish of fruit. He ate of the
fine grapes and pears, then rose and opened his door. In the small room
beyond a young priest was seated at a table, bending over a large leaf
of parchment, to which he was applying a pen with quick delicate
strokes. He looked up with a smile.
"What are you doing?" asked Roldan, curiously, approaching the table.
"Illuminating the manuscripts of a mass. Look." And he displayed the
exquisite border to the music, the latter written with equal precision
and neatness. "This will be alive when I am not even dust. No one will
know that I did it; but I like the thought that it may live for
centuries."
"If I did it, I should sign my name to it," said Roldan, with his first
prompting of ambition. "But I never could do that; I have not the
patience. I mean to be governor of the Californias."
"I hope you may be," said the young priest, gravely.
"Are all your Indians docile?" asked Roldan, abruptly.
The priest raised his head. "Why do you ask?"
Roldan related his suspicions.
The priest shot a furtive glance through the open window at the dark
square.
"I don't know," he said slowly. "Sometimes I have thought--you see, many
are stubborn and intractable, and have to be flogged and chained.
Privately I think we are wasting our energies. We will leave California
several beautiful monuments for posterity to wonder at, but as for the
Indians we will end where we began. They are always escaping and running
back to the mountains. Their every instinct is for barbarism; they have
not one for civilization, nor can any be planted whose roots will not
trail over the surface. The good Lord intended them to be savages,
nothing more; and it is mistaken sentimentalism--However, it is not for
me to criticise, and I beg, Don Roldan, that you will not repeat what I
have said."
"Of course I shall not; but tell me, do you think there is danger?"
"We have one rather bright young Indian--there are about a dozen
exceptions in all California, and they are treacherous. His name is
Anastacio, and he has great influence with the other Indians. A good
many of them are angry at present because they have been punished for
stealing grapes and stores, and just now they are rather excited because
it has been proposed to banish Anastacio to a Mission where there are
more soldiers,--he is regarded as the inciter of the outrages."
"Have you soldiers here?"
"Eleven.