"The man who was killed left no child," persisted Bryton. "I heard the story."
"A daughter was born six months after his death—after the wife had taken the black veil of eternal renunciation of the world," declared the priest, solemnly. "Now, señor, for the love of God, will you let us find safer footing?"
"Oh, yes. Pardon me!" and Bryton continued thoughtfully along the trail to the plain below. When they reached a broader road where it was possible to ride abreast, he asked one more question.
"Father, does she know?"
"Not unless some in the world have told her. Here, the old priest, her uncle, had power enough over the wild tribe to make them promise they would not tell her until she had lived twenty years. He died ten years ago, but they kept faith. There are some people in the world who had to know,—the lawyers and judges who settled the estate,—for Estevan was a man of wealth. He carried wounds here from the war for California. The child thought he died from the effects of those. Out in the world where she has gone, that wild barbaric outbreak of her mother's people will never be known; and of the few who have learned it who would tell her?"
"True, father: who would?"
