My pulses throbbed, yet I could only look at her, as she stood trembling, her eyes downcast, her cheeks burning.
"But—but, père, will it be right?" she faltered faintly.
"Let the dead past bury its dead," he answered gravely. "I hold it right in the name of Christ, from whom I derive authority. Geoffrey Benteen, take within your own the hand of this woman."
'T is but a dream, our standing there together in the sun; a dream, those words of the marriage rite spoken by him in the desolation and silence of the desert. We knelt together upon the stones, hand clasping hand, while above our bowed heads were uplifted the priest's thin, white hands in benediction. Whether or not in that hour André Lafossier exceeded his authority I cannot tell. In heart we were joined of God; our union has never been questioned of man.
We stood there watching, longing to prevent the sacrifice, as he moved away from us slowly upon his crutches. It was a pitiful sight, that slender figure, in frayed, tattered black robe, going forward alone, and in agony, to death or torture. It was in my heart to cry after him, but she understood far better the mighty motive of his sacrifice, and restrained me with uplifted hand. Far up the canyon, he paused a moment and glanced back. The distance already veiled his face, but up into the sunlight he lifted the silver crucifix. Then he disappeared—to endure his fate in Christ's name. Then, hand in hand and heart to heart, our voices silent, Eloise and I went down into the valley to where the boats lay. The dead past was behind us; the future was our own.
THE END