"You see her—some day?" asked the Indian.
"No—not ever again—perhaps."
The Indian bent his head, and with a slight gesture as of farewell, turned and walked swiftly away from them, around the bend of the mountain.
"Your words have an unusual interest," said the priest, as they walked down toward the plain. "They suggest that the missionary might be the one they spoke of here as the Indian nun."
"This lady was not Indian," said Keith, decidedly. "Her skin was whiter than either yours or mine. The Indians called her Doña Espiritu! It was the only name they knew her by."
"It was the same, and her father's name was Estevan," said the priest, quietly.
"Yes, I know now. His name was Estevan, but—"
"And he was the man who died the awful death up there." And he pointed back to the temple.
"No!" Bryton stopped on the path and faced the priest, thus halting the entire procession at a point where a yawning gulf of a cañon reached to unseen depths below.
"For the love of Christ—señor!" screamed the priest, while the Mexicans in the rear clung to their burros and swore.