Also in the Cathedral, it is believed, rests the mortality of Don Diego de Vargas, _el Reconquistador_, but unmarked. You will find many an echo of him in Santa Fe, for he it was who in 1692 re-conquered New Mexico for Spain after the Pueblo uprising of 1680 had swept the Spaniards out of the province and for twelve years kept them out. Every year in June Santa Fe celebrates its De Vargas Day, when a procession, bearing at its head an image of the Virgin, marches from the Cathedral to the little Rosario Chapel that is dedicated to Our Lady of the Rosary (or as Santa Féans sometimes call her, _La Conquistadora_, the Lady Conqueror). It occupies the spot, on the city outskirts, where according to tradition De Vargas knelt on the eve of his second entry into the capital (December 16, 1693), and invoking the blessing of the Virgin upon his arms, promised her a chapel if she vouchsafed him victory on the morrow. It is a scant half-hour’s stroll thither from the Plaza, and you will enjoy the walk through the city’s half foreign scenes, though the building itself is disappointing because of its handling by tasteless renovators. Much more picturesque, though modernized with an astonishing steeple, is the little church of Guadalupe, standing amid Lombardy poplars on the south bank of the river. A quiet, reposeful, little temple, this, with beautifully carved ceiling beams and a curious, if crude, altar-piece representing the appearances of Mexico’s Heavenly Patroness to Juan Diego. Of the churches in Santa Fe, however, the one that is made most of by visitors, is the square-towered adobe of San Miguel. It is a pleasant twenty-minute walk from the Plaza (and, by all means, do walk when you go, for the way thither is too picturesque to be whisked over in an automobile)—through quiet, unpaved streets lined with one-storied adobe houses and often too narrow to accommodate any but a mere thread of sidewalk, where you bump into burros and, like as not, have utter strangers tip their hats to you with a _buenos dias, señor_. You pass the Bishop’s sequestered gardens and the high-walled grounds of the Convent and Academy of the Sisters of Loretto, with glimpses through a postern gate of old-fashioned flower beds; and further on, the touching little cemetery of the Sisters, each simple grave marked by a cross whereon vines and fragrant flowers lean lovingly; and so, on stepping stones, to the south side of the little Rio de Santa Fe. Then mounting the hill past more gardens where hollyhocks—_la barra de San José_ (St. Joseph’s rod) the New Mexicans call them—nod at you over the walls, and children prattle in Spanish and women sing at their work, there you are before old San Miguel.