a convert of the mission-第3章

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but　the　spirit　is　mortified。　　But　my　bodily　strength　is　mercifully

returning；　and　I　found　myself　yesterday　able　to　take　a　long　ride　at

that　hour　which　they　here　keep　sacred　for　an　idolatrous　rite；　under

the　beautiful　name　of　〃The　Angelus。〃　　Thus　do　they　bear　false

witness　to　Him！　　Can　you　tell　me　the　meaning　of　the　Spanish　words

〃Don　Keyhotter〃？　　I　am　ignorant　of　these　sensuous　Southern

languages；　and　am　aware　that　this　is　not　the　correct　spelling；　but

I　have　striven　to　give　the　phonetic　equivalent。　　It　was　used；　I　am

inclined　to　think；　in　reference　to　MYSELF；　by　an　idolater。



P。S。You　need　not　trouble　yourself。　　I　have　just　ascertained　that

the　words　in　question　were　simply　the　title　of　an　idle　novel；　and；

of　course；　could　not　possibly　refer　to　ME。





Howbeit　it　was　as　〃Don　Quixote〃that　is；　the　common　Spaniard's

conception　of　the　Knight　of　La　Mancha；　merely　the　simple　fanatic

and　madmanthat　Mr。　Stephen　Masterton　ever　after　rode　all

unconsciously　through　the　streets　of　the　Mission；　amid　the　half…

pitying；　half…smiling　glances　of　the　people。



In　spite　of　his　meditations；　his　single　volume；　and　his　habit　of

retiring　early；　he　found　his　evenings　were　growing　lonely　and

tedious。　　He　missed　the　prayer　meeting；　and；　above　all；　the　hymns。

He　had　a　fine　baritone　voice；　sympathetic；　as　may　be　imagined；　but

not　cultivated。　　One　night；　in　the　seclusion　of　his　garden；　and

secure　in　his　distance　from　other　dwellings；　he　raised　his　voice　in

a　familiar　camp…meeting　hymn　with　a　strong　Covenanter's　ring　in　the

chorus。　　Growing　bolder　as　he　went　on；　he　at　last　filled　the　quiet

night　with　the　strenuous　sweep　of　his　chant。　　Surprised　at　his　own

fervor；　he　paused　for　a　moment；　listening；　half　frightened；　half

ashamed　of　his　outbreak。　　But　there　was　only　the　trilling　of　the

night　wind　in　the　leaves；　or　the　far…off　yelp　of　a　coyote。



For　a　moment　he　thought　he　heard　the　metallic　twang　of　a　stringed

instrument　in　the　Mission　garden　beyond　his　own；　and　remembered　his

contiguity　to　the　church　with　a　stir　of　defiance。　　But　he　was

relieved；　nevertheless。　　His　pent…up　emotion　had　found　vent；　and

without　the　nervous　excitement　that　had　followed　his　old

exaltation。　　That　night　he　slept　better。　　He　had　found　the　Lord

againwith　Psalmody！



The　next　evening　he　chanced　upon　a　softer　hymn　of　the　same

simplicity；　but　with　a　vein　of　human　tenderness　in　its　aspirations；

which　his　more　hopeful　mood　gently　rendered。　　At　the　conclusion　of

the　first　verse　he　was；　however；　distinctly　conscious　of　being

followed　by　the　same　twanging　sound　he　had　heard　on　the　previous

night；　and　which　even　his　untutored　ear　could　recognize　as　an

attempt　to　accompany　him。　　But　before　he　had　finished　the　second

verse　the　unknown　player；　after　an　ingenious　but　ineffectual　essay

to　grasp　the　right　chord；　abandoned　it　with　an　impatient　and　almost

pettish　flourish；　and　a　loud　bang　upon　the　sounding…board　of　the

unseen　instrument。　　Masterton　finished　it　alone。



With　his　curiosity　excited；　however；　he　tried　to　discover　the

locality　of　the　hidden　player。　　The　sound　evidently　came　from　the

Mission　garden；　but　in　his　ignorance　of　the　language　he　could　not

even　interrogate　his　Indian　housekeeper。　　On　the　third　night；

however；　his　hymn　was　uninterrupted　by　any　sound　from　the　former

musician。　　A　sense　of　disappointment；　he　knew　not　why；　came　over

him。　　The　kindly　overture　of　the　unseen　player　had　been　a　relief　to

his　loneliness。　　Yet　he　had　barely　concluded　the　hymn　when　the

familiar　sound　again　struck　his　ears。　　But　this　time　the　musician

played　boldly；　confidently；　and　with　a　singular　skill　on　the

instrument。



The　brilliant　prelude　over；　to　his　entire　surprise　and　some

confusion；　a　soprano　voice；　high；　childish；　but　infinitely　quaint

and　fascinating；　was　mischievously　uplifted。　　But　alas！　even　to　his

ears；　ignorant　of　the　language；　it　was　very　clearly　a　song　of

levity　and　wantonness；　of　freedom　and　license；　of　coquetry　and

incitement！　　Yet　such　was　its　fascination　that　he　fancied　it　was

reclaimed　by　the　delightful　childlike　and　innocent　expression　of

the　singer。



Enough　that　this　tall；　gaunt；　broad…shouldered　man　arose　and；

overcome　by　a　curiosity　almost　as　childlike；　slipped　into　the

garden　and　glided　with　an　Indian　softness　of　tread　toward　the

voice。　　The　moon　shone　full　upon　the　ruined　Mission　wall　tipped

with　clusters　of　dark　foliage。　　Half　hiding；　half　mingling　with　one

of　theman　indistinct　bulk　of　light…colored　huddled　fleeces　like

an　extravagant　bird's　nesthung　the　unknown　musician。　　So　intent

was　the　performer's　preoccupation　that　Masterton　actually　reached

the　base　of　the　wall　immediately　below　the　figure　without

attracting　its　attention。　　But　his　foot　slipped　on　the　crumbling

debris　with　a　snapping　of　dry　twigs。　　There　was　a　quick　little　cry

from　above。　　He　had　barely　time　to　recover　his　position　before　the

singer；　impulsively　leaning　over　the　parapet；　had　lost　hers；　and

fell　outward。　　But　Masterton　was　tall；　alert；　and　self…possessed；

and　threw　out　his　long　arms。　　The　next　moment　they　were　full　of

soft　flounces；　a　struggling　figure　was　against　his　breast；　and　a

woman's　frightened　little　hands　around　his　neck。　　But　he　had　broken

her　fall；　and　almost　instantly；　yet　with　infinite　gentleness；　he

released　her　unharmed；　with　hardly　her　crisp　flounces　crumpled；　in

an　upright　position　against　the　wall。　　Even　her　guitar；　still

hanging　from　her　shoulder　by　a　yellow　ribbon；　had　bounded　elastic

and　resounding　against　the　wall；　but　lay　intact　at　her　satin…

slippered　feet。　　She　caught　it　up　with　another　quick　little　cry；

but　this　time　more　of　sauciness　than　fear；　and　drew　her　little　hand

across　its　strings；　half　defiantly。



〃I　hope　you　are　not　hurt？〃　said　the　circuit　preacher；　gravely。



She　broke　into　a　laugh　so　silvery　that　he　thought　it　no

extravagance　to　liken　it　to　the　moonbeams　that　played　over　her　made

audible。　　She　was　lithe；　yet　plump；　barred　with　black　and　yellow

and　small…waisted　like　a　pretty　wasp。　　Her　complexion　in　that　light

was　a　sheen　of　pearl　satin　that　made　her　eyes　blacker　and　her

little　mouth　redder　than　any　other　color　could。　　She　was　small；

but；　remembering　the　fourteen…year…old　wife　of　the　shopkeeper；　he

felt　that；　for　all　her　childish　voice　and　features；　she　was　a　grown

woman；　and　a　sudden　shyness　took　hold　of　him。



But　she　looked　pertly　in　his　face；　stood　her　guitar　upright　before

her；　and　put　her　hands　behind　her　back　as　she　leaned　saucily

against　the　wall　and　shrugged　her　shoulders。



〃It　was　the　fault　of　you；〃　she　said；　in　a　broken　English　that

seemed　as　much　infantine　as　foreign。　　〃What　for　you　not　remain　to

yourself　in　your　own　CASA？　　So　it　come。　　You　creep　soin　the　dark…

…and　shake　my　wall；　and　I　fall。　　And　she；〃　pointing　to　the　guitar；

〃is　a'most　broke！　　And　for　all　thees　I　have　only　make　to　you　a

serenade。　　Ingrate！〃



〃I　beg　your　pardon；〃　said　Masterton　quickly；　〃but　I　was　curious。　　I

thought　I　might　help　you；　and〃



〃Make　yourself　another　cat　on　the　wall；　eh？　　No；　one　is　enough；

thank　you！〃



A　frown　lowered　on　Masterton's　brow。　　〃You　don't　understand　me；〃　he

said；　bluntly。　　〃I　did　not　know　WHO　was　here。〃



〃Ah；　BUENO！　　Then　it　is　Pepita　Ramirez；　you　see；〃　she　said；　tapping

her　bodice　with　one　little　finger；　〃all　the　same；　the　niece　from

Manuel　Garcia；　who　keeps　the　Mission　garden　and　lif　there。　　And

you？〃



〃My　name　is　Masterton。〃



〃How　mooch？〃



〃Masterton；〃　he　repeated。



She　tried　to　pronounce　it　once　or　twice　desperately；　and　then　shook

her　little　head　so　violently　that　a　yellow　rose　fastened　over　her

ear　fell　to　the　ground。　　But　she　did　not　heed　it；　nor　the　fact　that

Masterton　had　picked　it　up。



〃Ah；　I　cannot！〃　she　said；　poutingly。　　〃It　is　as　deefeecult　to　make

go　as　my　guitar　with　your　serenade。〃



〃Can　you　not　say　'Stephen　Masterton'？〃　he　asked；　more　gently；　with

a　returning　and　forgiving　sense　of　her　childishness。



〃Es…st