were not uncommon. The Father had seen many as fine-looking Indian men. But his voice was remarkable, and he spoke better Spanish than was wont to be heard from Indians.
“Where are you from?” said the Father, as he held his pen poised in hand, ready to write their names in the old raw-hide-bound book.
“Temecula, Father,” replied Alessandro.
Father Gaspara dropped his pen. “The village the Americans drove out the other day?” he cried.
“Yes, Father.”
Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge from his excitement, as usual, in pacing the floor. “Go! go! I'm done with you! It's all over,” he said fiercely to the Irish bride and groom, who had given him their names and their fee, but were still hanging about irresolute, not knowing if all were ended or not. “A burning shame! The most dastardly thing I have seen yet in this land forsaken of God!” cried the Father. “I saw the particulars of it in the San Diego paper yesterday.” Then, coming to a halt in front of Alessandro, he exclaimed: “The paper said that the Indians were compelled to pay all the costs of the suit; that the sheriff took their cattle to do it. Was that true?”
“Yes, Father,” replied Alessandro.
The Father strode up and down again, plucking at his beard. “What are you going to do?” he said. “Where have you all gone? There were two hundred in your village the last time I was there.”
“Some have gone over into Pachanga,” replied Alessandro, “some to San Pasquale, and the rest to San Bernardino.”
“Body of Jesus! man! But you take it with philosophy!” stormed Father Gaspara.
Alessandro did not understand the word “philosophy,” but he knew what the Father meant. “Yes,
