"Rosa Terranza," said Spear excitedly. They listened. From within the tent-house came a sound of hasty movements, whispering. The light winked out. A bolt was shot; then silence. "I'll bet, by Jupiter, McTurpin's there," cried Adrian. "And that he's hurt," Spear added. "What shall we do?" "Let them be," decided Stanley, clucking to his horse. "My duty's ahead." He took the steep pitch of the hillside almost at a gallop and soon they were descending again into that little settlement of waterside and slope called North Beach. Juana Briones' place had been its pioneer habitation. Her hospitable gate stood always invitingly open. Through the branches of a cypress lights could be seen. The front door stood ajar and about it were whispering women. Adrian's heart leaped. Was something amiss? He dismounted impetuously, throwing the reins to an Indian who had come out evidently to do them service. Spear followed as he rushed through the door. There stood Dona Briones, finger on lip, demanding silence. Her face was grave. "How--how is she? How is Inez?" Adrian stammered. "The doctor's with her. Everything will be all right, I think. But make no noise. Go in that room and sit down." Adrian threw up his hands. "My God, woman! How can I sit still when--when--?" "Walk up and down, then," said Juana, "but take off your shoes." Which Adrian finally did. It seemed to him that he had paced the tiny chamber a thousand times. He heard movements, voices in the next room; now and then his wife's moan and the elder woman's soothing accents. Then a silence which seemed century long, a silence fraught with unimaginable terror. It was broken by a new sound, high pitched, feeble, but distinct; the cry of a child. Helplessly Adrian subsided into a chair beside Nathan Spear. "Do you hear that?" he asked, mopping his forehead. "Yes, I heard it," said the other non-committally. "I can't stand this any longer," Adrian exclaimed. "I'm going in there. I--I've got to know--" He rose, determinedly, shaking off Spear's detaining arm. In the doorway stood Dr. Jones. Again came the tiny cry. "It's a boy," said the medico, and held out his hand. But Adrian caught him by the shoulders. "My wife?" he asked. "How is she? Is there any--" "Danger? No, it's over," said the doctor. "Sit down and calm yourself." Adrian relaxed a trifle. Finally his set face softened; he laughed. * * * * * It was the evening of July 14, 1849. Stanley stood over the cradle of his son, looking worshipfully down at the tiny sleeping face. Inez Stanley, busied with the varied tasks of motherhood, came and stood for a moment beside him. She voiced that platitude of wives and mothers in their pride: "He looks just like you, Adrian." Stanley put his hands upon her shoulders. "Got your mouth, your big eyes," he said, and kissed her.