Now, Juan, ring your loudest, and no one will complain: Muy querida, muy querida . . .
It is the big bell, only, of the Mission, that is ringing now, the one in the top embrasure of the arched campanario. It rings steady and clear, as Gregorio always makes it, but slowly, and the sound that trembles heavily out upon the heat-laden air settles down upon the village like a noonday shadow. Again there are people gathered for a simple procession, and horses are tied to the posts along the street. But this time it is not at old Marta's house that the people are, gathered, but at the new, white cottage that Ramon Enriquez built, a year ago, for his bride. Juan, merry and mischievous as a blue jay generally, is sober as he hovers on the outskirts of the little group of people. Again the six little girls are waiting, two and two, but they carry white flowers, lilies, roses, and jessamine. Presently Marta appears, a creeping, somber figure, black from head to foot.
The straggling group moves up the street, old Marta at the head, talking to herself, and shaking her head. As they near the Mission the great door opens, and the Padre comes out, followed by four young men, who carry—alas! my heart tells me what they carry—the brightness and lightness of the face and form of Ysabel Enriquez: and there lies upon her breast a tiny baby form. Alas! muy querida! Ramon walks behind, and looks neither to right nor left, as they take their place at the head of the little procession. And so they go, up the white, dusty road, to the campo santo.
Muy querida, muy querida, says the great bell: slower and slower, muy querida, muy . . . and so, ceases.
The sun was going down, its warm light dying away up the ancient wall. Far away sounded the faint thrumming of the mandolin in the cottage across the road: the three Mexicans were still silently gambling.
Yes, it is a desolate little spot, the campo santo of San Gabriel. [1}
[1]
The foregoing sketch was written some short time ago, before certain
renovations were made about the cemetery which have changed the
"atmosphere" of the place. I confess to an unreasonable wish that God's
Acre might have been spared by the industrious hand of the whitewasher,
when the zeal for "cleaning up" seized upon the village fathers of San
Gabriel.