Shrinking from the unwelcome office of giving the fraile decent burial, Steven nevertheless pulled at the heavy body that lay as it fell with a knife in the heart. He dragged it to the side of the road, intending to cover it with stones in a sandy grave so that neither coyotes nor wolves could scratch it forth. He owed the fraile that much for what entertainment and information he had yielded him two nights before. The movement disclosed a long, rolled-up piece of canvas protruding from beneath the cassock of the dead fraile. Steven drew it forth and, loosing the deerskin thongs with which it was bound, unrolled a painting, cracked, old, yet to his eyes undoubtedly beautiful and perhaps of value. Then in a flash he recognized the painting of the “Madonna and Child” which he had seen upon the wall of the sala in Don Anabel Lopez’s house upon his first night in Santa Fe. The talk of the fraile came rushing back to him and he recalled it with new significance. Why had it not occurred to him at the time that this coveted treasure had been dishonestly secured from Santa Fe? Steven stood in the road for some time, gazing at the painting, putting the story together. Then he rolled the canvas up again, replacing the thong that had bound it. The fraile’s care that so valuable a thing should not leave his person had saved the painting, for his mules had either been driven off or had run away by themselves, all his possessions upon them, while this most priceless article had remained concealed beneath his long robes. Whoever had made an end of Fray Bartolomeo had not stopped to touch him or to look for gold or silver upon his person. Steven tied the roll upon the side of his mare, fastening it to the wrought-leather saddle securely. Then he turned to the fraile. An hour later a fresh heap of stones marked a spot by the roadside and two buzzards appeared high in the sky. Steven straightened up, heaved a thoughtful sigh, and brushed the sweat from his temples. Mounting his mare, he turned her head about and, pressing his spurs upon her flanks, set off at a canter toward Santa Fe. It was the only thing to do. He was secretly relieved to have the matter of decision taken out of his hands. There was obviously no one to whom he could safely intrust the return of the canvas. He must take it himself, just as Don Tiburcio de Garcia had taken Doren back to his sister. Steven returned that night to the house which he had left in the early morning. His reception was gentle and cordial. He told Don José that he had changed his mind and why he was returning to Santa Fe. Don José exchanged a swift look with his son, and nodded to his guest in acknowledgment without changing expression. Steven brought in the roll of canvas, opened and spread it before their gaze. They knelt before its beauty, crossing themselves.