etto nasal of
their holiday songs, breaking ludicrously above the mumbling bass of
loosely strung harps. Nearer by, the only life was an old man with a
fife and a boy with a drum, who marched round and round the chapel,
playing monotonously, while a second urchin every five minutes touched
off a small cannon at the door. They did these things with solemn
earnestness. It was to achieve an end, for San Felipe's day would come
soon, and meantime each and every lurking devil had to be driven off the
sacred precincts. But there was one hideous fiend who grinned, and
pinched, and shrieked. His abode was the girl's heart, and he shrieked
to her gleefully, that she could never, never in life, wed the man she
loved. The fife and drum and the stupid little cannon simply made him
the merrier.

* * * * *

The imps were left in peace for the night, and all about the chapel was
dark and silent and desolate. But a man was working stealthily at one of
the rear windows. It was a square, barred window, near the ground. The
man chipped away at the granite sill with short, quick blows. The butt
of his chisel was padded in flannel, so that even a chuckling that
escaped him now and again made more sound than the steel. Soon he
dropped his tools, and wrapping either hand around a window bar, he
braced both feet together against the wall, and pulled. The two bars
scraped slowly toward him across the stone. Then, with a sharp, downward
jerk he tore them out. Quickly he climbed inside and cut the ropes of a
man who lay bound on the floor. Both men emerged noiselessly through the
window.

"Have a care how you step," whispered the rescuer. "Your faithful guards
are busy sleeping and don't want any disturbance."

"That candle-stinking sacristy!" grumbled the rescued.

"But it's the only stone calaboose on the ranch. In fact, _I_
suggested it, since Don Rodrigo should be kept tight and safe. That's
why Dupin left me behind." The rescuer chuckled as before. "Careful,
hombre, there's a guard there, lying right in front of you!"

Rodrigo made out the prostrate form, and lifted a boot heel over the
upturned face. But his liberator jerked him aside.

"Fool, you'll wake the fat padre, and he doesn't like my jests, says
they're inspired of the Evil One."

"Thinking of the Bishop of Sonora's waiting maid, was he?"

"Well, what of it? Didn't he elope here with her?"

"And you, Don Tiburcio?"

"Of cours