Upon approaching nearer I perceived that a funeral procession had just left the church. An assistant priest and a barefooted Mexican altar-boy stood framed in the arch of the ancient portal.
The sad little procession was now entering the old graveyard at the rear of the Mission. I could hear the sobs of the mourners, and my heart went out to the poor mother, garbed in faded mourning, bowed with both grief and labor.
The little coffin was borne on a bier by six swarthy young Mexicans, possibly one of them the lover of the dead girl.
The sight was pathetic, and at this particular time I felt it to be more than I could bear.
A moment later I peered into the old church—it was empty.
Where now could I go? To whom should I apply for help?
Father Ramirez was evidently not about; a strange priest had followed the funeral procession, and doubtless the old friend of the Del Valles had gone at once with Arturo.
I had probably missed passing them by taking a different road, having endeavored to shorten the distance by a cut through a ranch.
Mechanically I climbed into the buggy, believing that there was no course left but to return home for assistance, when in the distance I saw, almost like a sign from on high, the deserted hotel of East San Gabriel.