GOVERNOR DE ARRILLAGA had faced death before in his day, yet he never had been so shaken by the confrontation as tonight. This adventure had its aspect of commonality; there was no dignity in it. To be slain by a vile bandit with an outraged cross was no fitting end for a governor. It would have been said of him that he fell in a brawl, little more dignified, if not quite as ignoble, as a riot of dirty fellows in the street.
It was enough to cause a man to walk in the silence of reflection, turning over in his mind the somber thoughts that attended this happy deliverance. It was a subject for a philosopher, such as Governor de Arrillaga was in his way, this inscrutable caprice of chance, or fortune, or providence, in snatching a man one way or the other when he stood on the great divide between life and death. The governor had been silent in the contemplation of it as he walked back to the mission beside Padre Ignacio, Padre Mateo and Cristóbal going on ahead.
Juan was standing under the arcade before Don Geronimo's door, whither he had been banished by Doña Magdalena, who had only to whisper a word, indeed, in explanation of the delicate matter of Gertrudis' wounds, to send him flying into the night. Doña Magdalena had stood before him in awe, afraid to touch him, even to let her garment brush him. It would be a presumptuous sacrilege, she said, for one in sin to lay a hand on him, coming so lately from the holy touch of Our Señora which had restored his sight.
For Gertrudis, agent of this miraculous restoration, as Doña Magdalena declared it to be, the good woman had a reverent regard. There was the balm of healing in the very compassion of her touch. She assured Juan that Gertrudis would be well in the morning, to which confident declaration Gertrudis added the hopeful comfort of her smile. It was a wan, a weak, a weary smile, yet the placid expression of serenity, of humble gratitude. There was no triumph in it, no exultation in a reward struggled for and won.
Padre Mateo was almost equal to Doña Magdalena in his regard for Juan. When he came up with Cristóbal, leading Padre Ignacio and the governor by almost a quarter of a mile, Padre Mateo spdke to Juan in whispers. He inquired of Gertrudis, expressing thanks for the promises of her quick recovery. He suggested that they turn back to meet the governor, who had sent word ahead that he desired to inquire into the part borne by Juan and Cristóbal in the late tragedy.
"It will please him to have some deference shown," he said. "I hastened on to acquaint you with his desire, Juan, but it will be better if we go and meet him. He is a just man, but he is a governor."
They met Padre Ignacio and the governor before the churth. There, in the moonlight that fell white on the bare, hard-trampled ground in front of the door, Governor de Arrillaga stopped to hold his court of inquiry into the adventure of the night. His short, harsh hair was standing on end from the raking of his perplexed fingers during his silent walk at Padre Ignacio's side; his sash was slipped out of place around his rather well-filled body, his wide-topped boots flapped about his legs. The collar of his nightgown was open, his sword-belt hastily buckled, the end of it loose from the guard.
Yet the governor was a man of commanding figure and presence in spite of his disarray. He had sat in high offices for many years; his position in California was virtually that of a king.
"Governor de Arrillaga, this is Juan Molinero, of whom you have heard tonight in our conversation before this disturbing hour," Padre Ignacio said, presenting Juan as formally as if the governor had not seen him at the dam a few minutes past.
"The one who was blind?" said the governor.
"Who now sees through a miracle"
"And this is Cristóbal," Padre Ignacio broke his coadjutor's fervent declaration, his hand on the young Indian's shoulder. "You have heard of him tonight, also."
"So it is," said the governor; "it is very true. Now tell me," he demanded with sudden directness, looking from one to the other of the two young men, "whose arrow was it that struck that villain down?"
Juan stepped forward. He was not an assuring figure, his appearance more in keeping with those who had come in violence than one who had intervened as a friend. The scars of his face were hidden by his thick-growing beard; his hair was in disorder on his forehead, he was dressed in the rough garb that he lately had worn in the shops and mill.
"Is this act to be regarded as a service to be commended, Governor de Arrillaga, or a crime to be condemned?" Juan asked.
"The arrow saved my life," the governor returned, his voice calm, his manner unmoved. "Does a man condemn such a service? Juan Molinero, I would reward the man whose hand despatched that arrow in the measure of his service to me, if it lay within my power. Let him speak without fear."
"It was Cristóbal, excellency."
"Excellency, it was Juan."
The two men spoke together, as if they had rehearsed the declaration many times, so readily do the words of generous abnegation spring from the lips of friends. Each of them stepped forward a little, as if in haste to lodge his information first in the governor's ears, hands put out in earnest appeal for credence of statements so impossibly at variance.
"What is this?" the governor demanded, looking curiously from one to the other.
"It will be easy to prove that it is Cristóbal's arrow—his mark is on it," said Juan.
"My arrow, but Juan aimed it," Cristóbal testified with equal earnestness. "Excellency, give him his life—your soldiers hunt him like a panther. You see now what a man he is!"
"I beg this reward for Cristóbal, whose true arrow never fails a friend," Juan entreated. "His life is forfeit for the death of Captain del Valle. Give it to him, I beg you, excellency, in payment for your own."
"I see how it is between you," the governor said, lifting his hand for silence when Padre Mateo would have spoken. "Each would have the reward go to the other one, with the true generosity of a friend. But suppose that I say, with this conflicting testimony before me, that it was neither Cristóbal nor Juan who shot the arrow that saved my life?"
"Our horses stand waiting, excellency; we will ride on our way," said Juan.
The governor took a little turn up and down the open space, fingers raking his upstanding hair, a man in deep perplexity, it was plain. Yet it was as evident, also, that he desired to resolve this matter in a just and equitable way.
"It is strange," he said, muttering as to himself, "that one who was blind, and another who was far distant, should meet in the moment of my peril and do me a service which neither will own. A man would think it disgraceful to save a mere governor's life, the way you fellows put it off on each other. I don't know whether either one of you is deserving, I don't know whether to believe you or not. Still, somebody shot Alvitre; he is lying dead on the dam."
Governor de Arrillaga looked from Juan to Cristóbal, from Padre Mateo to Padre Ignacio, hand in his short harsh hair.
"It is unfortunate that I do not know anything about the integrity of either witness," he said, "or what credence to place in the word of either Cristóbal or Juan. Never mind, Padre Ignacio—I know what is in your generous heart. You cannot see wrong in any of your children. Permit me to sound this matter in my own way."
Padre Ignacio spread his hands in gesture of resignation. He whispered to Padre Mateo; they stood waiting the governor's decision while he paced back and forth across the trampled dooryard of the church.
"Then I shall interpret this mystery this way," the governor said, stopping abruptly before the two young men. "I shall say that both Juan and Cristóbal shot the arrow that saved my life, and both Juan and Cristóbal shall be rewarded as they individually deserve.
"Juan Molinero, your case has been laid before me tonight by your good padres; we have discussed it fully. I cannot see that you are guilty of any crime. The old decree that sets the penalty of death upon foreigners who enter Alta California is oppressive and unjust; it cannot stand between friendly nations. Aside from your service to me this night you have shown yourself a courageous, a worthy and generous man. Your work here at San Fernando, also, has been of incalculable value, not alone to the mission, but to the public. You are free from all charges and harassments from this moment. You may remain in California, with all the privileges of a citizen, or depart to your own country, as you desire. So much, then, for you."
"I thank your excellency," said Juan, standing so very straight that it seemed his back never had owned a superior by bending before any man.
"Cristóbal, your case'is more serious," the governor continued. "You are charged with killing the king's officer, Captain del Valle, of the military forces of Alta California. What is there you can say?"
"Only that I am happy I did not wound him, excellency."
"And why did you return to San Fernando, when you were thought to be far away?"
"I was far away, but my heart was here. I could not go on without knowing what had become of my friend."
"Permit me, Governor de Arrillaga," Padre Mateo requested, not to be silenced any longer.
"Many things have come to our ears concerning Captain del Valle since the day he fell, not least among them absolute proof that he was an ally of Sebastian Alvitre, and shared his plunders of the road. This is conclusive."
"Complaints of the same tenor have reached me," the governor admitted. "You hasten me to my conclusion, Padre Mateo—what is it I would have said? No matter; the man was unworthy, he was an oppressor in his place. Yet that does not justify you, Cristóbal, in your awful deed. A man cannot be convicted without testimony, however, and I am told there were no witnesses to your crime, no eye that saw you direct the arrow against the king's soldier. A man cannot be compelled to testify against himself, I cannot accept your unsupported declaration that you are guilty of this crime. Therefore, you are absolved, you are fully pardoned, you are set free. Except—except such penance as Padre Ignacio shall set for you, which is a thing that I leave to him."
Here the governor, as if overwhelmed by his growing gratitude, the warmth of his nature melting the least clinging hardness of his words, rushed to Cristóbal and embraced him; dashed from Cristóbal to Juan, enfolding him in his arms, drawing the young man's hairy face against his own.
"I had no son until this night, now God has given me two!" he said.
Padre Ignacio and his coadjutor sat on the bench beside the broad door that opened to the wine press and the cellar. The moon had turned the middle of the world, and was filling the courtyard with a light that was like soft music of harps and viols, falling even against the north wall of the white mission, touching the knees of the two priests where they sat. Governor de Arrillaga had gone to his bed; Cristóbal to the village. Juan was pacing like a sentry up and down the arcade before Don Geronimo's door.
"It was a marvel, but not a miracle, Brother Mateo," the elder priest said, as if approaching a conclusion of the discussion that had run between them for an hour or more.
"It is an elusive distinction, for me at least," Padre Mateo returned, shaking his head with the stubbornness of a man unconvinced.
"As I have told you," Padre Ignacio said kindly, patiently, "Juan was not blind, at least according to my belief from the first. His eyes were sensitive to light. I had intended to begin in a little while to introduce him gradually to the day, not certain, but hopeful, that he might see very well again in time. This recovery is beyond my expectation, far beyond, indeed."
"Then it remains a miracle, for all your logic, Padre Ignacio."
"Not so, Brother Mateo; there is no necessity for miracles since our faith is established among all men. Juan leaped up at Cristóbal's cry, shocked by the alarm in the peaceful night. All the force within him desired to see; every nerve bent its energy to the consummation of that desire. So, in a moment his bodily forces accomplished what might have taken months in the ordinary course of healing. The clouds cleared from his eyes, in the same manner that the stress of great excitement, the shock of a sudden sorrow, has been known to strike men blind. It all resolves in a natural and explicable way."
Padre Mateo was silent a little while, yet the course of his thoughts could be traced by the slow, stubborn shaking of his head from time to time.
"Then Gertrudis must be told that all she suffered in anguish of spirit and body, all her pitiful petitioning through the long, sad hours, has been thrown away. It availed nothing; it was an empty sacrifice."
"Such devotion is not thrown away; it is not lost in heaven or earth," Padre Ignacio replied with infinite gentleness.
"You are a physician, and I am not," Padre Mato said; "you have an understanding of the science of optics, of which I am ignorant. But, my dear Padre Ignacio, science and logic, optics and physics and all aside, it is a miracle to them."
He stretched out his hand toward Don Geronimo's house, where Juan was pacing his tireless beat before the door.
"He cannot sleep, exalted as he is by the compassion that has melted his very heart. How is truth best served? By ruthless unveiling, or by tender reservations?"
"Poor child!" Padre Ignacio said; "she has emptied the chalice of her heart for him. And the blessing of it is, he is worthy."
"Then who is to tell her," Padre Mateo asked, turning earnestly to his superior, "that she won nothing, that Cristóbal's shout beneath the window did it all? No, Padre Ignacio, it is still a miracle to me; let it remain a miracle to them."
Padre Ignacio did not reply at once. He sat reclined wearily, his white-fringed head against the plaster wall, his sandalled feet stretched out as if he slept. Presently he raised himself quickly, put his hand on Padre Mateo's where it lay on the bench beside him, in his caressing, assuring, comforting way.
"Yes, it is better so," he said.