MISSIONARY JOURNEYS
rived from Taos. The notary told him the facts of the case in the plaza, where everyone could hear. The Bishop inquired whether there was any place for Magdalena in Taos, as she could not stay on here in such a state of terror.
A man dressed in buckskin hunting-clothes stepped out of the crowd and asked to see Magdalena. Father Latour conducted him into the room where she lay on her mat. The stranger went up to her, removing his hat. He bent down and put his hand on her shoulder. Though he was clearly an American, he spoke Spanish in the native manner.
“Magdalena, don’t you remember me?”
She looked up at him as out of a dark well; something became alive in her deep, haunted eyes. She caught with both hands at his fringed buckskin knees.
“Christobal!” she wailed. “Oh, Christobal!”
“I’ll take you home with me, Magdalena, and you can stay with my wife. You wouldn't be afraid in my house, would you?”
“No, no, Christobal, I would not be afraid with you. I am not a wicked woman.”
He smoothed her hair. “You’re a good girl, Magdalena—always were. It will be all right. Just leave things to me.”
Then he turned to the Bishop. “Señor Vicario, she can come to me. I live near Taos. My wife is a native woman, and she’ll be good to her. That varmint
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