Crescimir spent the day by the river searching for what might have been left on the banks by the flood. He learned that his raft had been carried out of the stream through a break in the bank, and much of the wreckage of his own house with it. Returning to the hacienda he discovered in a clump of bushes, over which the water had run when at its highest mark, the bodies of a man and woman entangled in the canvas cover of a camp wagon. It was evident to Crescimir from their dress that they were German emigrants.
With the help of some of the rancheros the bodies were carried to the house.
"They may be the parents of the little one," said Jovita's mother. "We will bring him here and see if he recognizes them; it seems cruel but it is the only way."
They brought the Christchild to the room where the bodies lay. When the little fellow saw them, he clung to Crescimir and uttering a moaning sound, yet seeming half like a laugh, he hid his eyes and would not look again.
"Are these thy parents little one?" asked Crescimir tenderly; the Christchild shook his head negatively and broke into hysterical sobs.
Though the Christchild had denied that these were the bodies of his parents, both Jovita, her mother and Crescimir felt certain that they were.
Crescimir remained that night at the Tulucay hacienda and early next morning the bodies were taken to the village and given burial in consecrated ground, as the cross which the woman wore and a medal of silver which the man carried showed them to be of the true church.
After the burial Crescimir returned to the rancheria. "I will be thy father now, little Christchild," said he as they stood at the well with Jovita, who had been filling the little olla for her mother's night drink.
The child looked up with a pleased smile and then turning to Jovita, asked with his bright eyes a question which words could not better have expressed.
Jovita replied softly as she looked down at the strange, wistful face, and felt the touch of Crescimir's hand on her own, "And I thy mother."