“Aye, silver,” answered the father sadly; “that is why it hangs no longer in the tower of San Felipe. Alas! my belfry is a pierced ear from which the jewel has been torn.” And his head bent to his hands. After a moment he raised his face, and raised his hands so that they pressed one palm against the other, at his chin. “It came to be lost through greed,” he went on. “A wandering band of Indians crossed the Rio Grande at this ford and attacked the pueblo. That was many, many years ago. The band came to steal, for they were hungry--not having been wise, Paloma, and provided themselves against a day of need. They fought from the ground, for they had no horses, and the Pueblos fought from the flat roofs of their houses, sending sharp arrows down upon their enemies. These, before they were fully routed, withdrew from the town, and sought a brief refuge in the chapel, and here, in this house. They demanded money, but there was no money to give them, and so the brave priest said. They did not harm the man of God. But they climbed to the belfry. There was the bell. They knew there was silver in it, else they would not have troubled. There was much silver in it, señor, it having been made in Old Mexico, where the custom was to use silver. The bell was easy to take. It swung in no yoke, but from a roundish, wooden beam, by heavy thongs that were run through its iron loop. These thongs they cut, and then----” The scarlet spots on his thin cheeks blanched, his eyes became round pools of glowing black. “Señor, a storm broke--a storm the like of which Los Morales had never before seen. Rain like a second deluge, so that the Rio Grande deepened on its bed, and wind so strong that it caught up the water of the river and lashed the ground with it, and carried waves up to the edge of the town--aye, even to the foot of the dirt-cliffs beyond. The thieves in the chapel were frightened--not because they saw what a terrible thing it was they had done, señor, only because they believed they might not get safely away with their lives. So they hurried down to the river, six men carrying the bell, and started to cross. As they entered the stream the silver tongue was swinging to and fro, to and fro, calling a farewell through the storm. And the Indians on the housetops called back to their beloved bell, answering it, and they wept aloud.” Here, the father’s voice faltered, broke, and went silent. He shut his eyes, and his slender hands trembled. But presently, he again looked up at the two who were listening. “Then, as the bell was choked into dumbness by the rushing waters,” he said, “the six who bore it suddenly sank from sight. They had walked into a very pit of death!” “How?” questioned the young painter. “The quicksands, señor.” “The quicksands!” “You should know that for all its shallow depth, the Rio Grande is here most treacherous, and travellers keep to the ford. The sands shift, señor--the bed of the river rots.”