“Rũelas me fecit.
Me Llama San Juan. 1796.”
"Who says? Did he?"
"He? No; he died laughing, and refused the blessing of the priest. One thing only he said when he read the words on the oldest bell, as he built a place in the tower for it. The name of the maker is on the bell; you can see it yet; it is Ruelas. 'So Ruelas made you—iron-tongue,' a soldier heard him say, 'and your name is San Juan. Well, Señor Ruelas, you only have your name in this work. The good padres will see that my name is forgotten, but instead of a name, I will leave myself, and so long as stone stands on stone I will call louder and farther than your iron tongue when rung your loudest! When the storms of centuries shall beat out every star and moon and sun in the stone of the temple, the man from Culiacan will be remembered here in Sahirit.'"
"Sahirit?"
"The Indian name for the valley was 'Quanis Savit Sahirit'; you can see it on the church records."
"And it means?"
"No one knows, and no one cares; it may mean another curse, for all I know. The Indios either do not know or will not tell."
"But—" and she drew in a long breath of relief—"what the man from Culiacan said to the bell—the thing the soldier heard—was not a curse; it was only that the beautiful work should be remembered."