Now, Paloma neared the window, but without looking out, and sat down on the wide ledge, so that she was in full sight of the waiting man by the wall. Then, she turned to Señor John’s easel with a great show of interest. “You are making a picture of Los Morales!” she began. “Am I not quick at guessing? You see it could not be Albuquerque, for you have put flat roofs on the houses. And it is not old Albuquerque, because—oh, padrecito! here is your house, and the garden, and the church with the little tower! Paint a bell in the tower, señor, since we have none.” And she smiled up at Señor John saucily.
“My daughter!” chided Father José, almost sternly, “do not jest of the bell!”
“So there was a bell—once,” said the young painter.
The father folded a damp napkin, covered his salad, and set the white-and-gold dish away carefully on a shelf. Then he came over and stood beside the easel, one slender hand clasping the other, and both held against the jet cross that swung on his breast. He was short and lean, with straight, white hair; a pale, bulging, bald forehead; a high nose; thin cheeks—upon each a spot of scarlet; and dark eyes that were on occasions alive with almost childish fun, nearly extinguished by laughter and as full of glints as the big, shining, brown-black beads of his rosary, but which, at other times, were wide, serene, and luminous.
“It was when there were mulberry-trees here by the river,” he began, “—the trees that gave the pueblo its name. There are some who say that mulberry-trees were never here; or, if trees were indeed here, they were only of the cottonwood. But these doubters think also”—a gentle smile parted his lips—“that the silver bell of Los Morales is only a legend.”
“The silver bell,” repeated Señor John.
“Aye, silver,” answered the father sadly; “that is why it hangs no longer in the tower of San Felipe. Alas! my belfry is a pierced ear from which the jewel has been torn.” And his head bent to his hands. After a moment he raised his face, and raised his hands so that they pressed one palm against the other, at his chin. “It came to be lost through greed,” he went on. “A wandering band of Indians crossed the Rio Grande at this ford and attacked the pueblo. That was many, many years ago. The band came to steal, for they were hungry—not having been wise, Paloma, and provided themselves against a day of need. They fought from the ground, for they had no horses, and the Pueblos fought from the flat roofs of their houses, sending sharp arrows down upon their enemies. These, before they were fully routed, withdrew from the town, and sought a brief refuge in the chapel, and here, in this house. They demanded money, but there was no money to give them, and so the brave priest said. They did not harm the man of God. But they climbed to the belfry. There was the bell. They knew there was silver in it, else they would not have troubled. There was much silver in it, señor, it having been made in Old Mexico, where the custom was to use silver. The bell was easy to take. It swung in no yoke, but from a roundish, wooden beam, by heavy thongs that were run through its iron loop. These thongs they cut, and then——” The scarlet spots on his thin cheeks blanched, his eyes became round pools of glowing black. “Señor, a storm broke—a storm the like of which Los Morales had never before seen. Rain like a second deluge, so that the Rio Grande deepened on its bed, and wind so strong that it caught up the water of the river and lashed the ground with it, and carried waves up to the edge of the town—aye, even to the foot of the dirt-cliffs beyond. The thieves in the chapel were frightened—not because they saw what a terrible thing it was they had done, señor, only because they believed they might not get safely away with their lives. So they hurried down to the river, six men carrying the bell, and started to cross. As they entered the stream the silver tongue was swinging to and fro, to and fro, calling a farewell through the storm. And the Indians on the housetops called back to their beloved bell, answering it, and they wept aloud.”
Here, the father’s voice faltered, broke, and went silent. He shut his eyes, and his slender hands trembled. But presently, he again looked up at the two who were listening. “Then, as the bell was choked into dumbness by the rushing waters,” he said, “the six who bore it suddenly sank from sight. They had walked into a very pit of death!”
“How?” questioned the young painter.
“The quicksands, señor.”