to the half-dry Santa Fe River and saw
the spire of San Miguel beyond it. In a moment the same sense of loss
and longing swept over me that I had fought with on the night after
Mat's wedding, when I sat on the bluff and stared at the waters of the
Kaw flowing down to meet the Missouri. And then I remembered what Father
Josef had said long ago out by the sandy arroyo:

"Among friends or enemies, the one haven of safety always is the holy
sanctuary."

I felt the strong need for a haven from myself as I crossed the stream
and followed the trail up to the doorway of San Miguel.

The shadows were growing long, few sounds broke the stillness of the
hour, and the spirit of peace brooded in the soft light and sweet air. I
had almost reached the church when I stopped suddenly, stunned by what I
saw. Two people were strolling up the narrow, crooked street that
wanders eastward beside the building--a tall, slender young man in white
linen clothes and a girl in a soft creamy gown, with a crimson scarf
draped about her shoulders. They were both bareheaded, and the man's
heavy black hair and curling black mustache, and the girl's coronal of
golden braids and the profile of her fair face left no doubt about the
two. It was Marcos Ramero and Eloise St. Vrain. They were talking
earnestly; and in a very lover-like manner the young man bent down to
catch his companion's words.

Something seemed to snap asunder in my brain, and from that moment I
knew myself; knew how futile is the belief that miles of prairie trail
and strength of busy days can ever cast down and break an idol of the
heart.

In a minute they had passed a turn in the street, and there was only
sandy earth and dust-colored walls and a yellow glare above them, where
a moment ago had been a shimmer of sunset's gold.

"The one haven of safety always is the holy sanctuary."

Father Josef's words sounded in my ears, and the face of old San Miguel
seemed to wear a welcoming smile. I stepped into the deep doorway and
stood there, aimless and unthinking, looking out toward where the Jemez
Mountains were outlined against the southwest horizon. Presently I
caught the sound of feet, and Marcos Ramero strode out of the narrow
street and followed the trail into the heart of the city.

I stared after him, noting the graceful carriage, the well-fitting
clothes, and the proud set of the handsome head. There was no doubt
about him. Did he hold the heart of the golden-haired girl w