“And the silver bell--it was never heard of again?” “Listen! and I will tell you. One black night, long before I came to Los Morales, a second band of thieving Indians crept up across the level ground beyond the river--across the ground where stands the hacienda in which you stay, Señor John. Before entering the ford the band halted to get ready their arrows, for they meant to take the town and drive out all the inhabitants. But see what happened! Scarcely had the enemy pushed their horses into the water at the farther side when the priest who lived here then wakened of a sudden. It seemed to him that from overhead had sounded a warning--_the single clear peal of a bell!_” Paloma crossed herself. Her dark eyes were wet. “Ah! _padrecito!_” she said softly. “I would pray for the return of the silver bell were I not too wicked.” “I pray,” said the father, “and my faith does not falter. Ah! señor! when the bell is restored to its tower, I shall waken the town with its mellow call to prayer! The Indians come but slowly to the chapel now. But think how musically sweet and inviting----” He was interrupted by the slow, dull _thub, thub, thub_ of a drum, which was beating from somewhere in the direction of the pueblo. He nodded gravely. “That is what calls my people, señor,” he said. “Little wonder that they lag.” The drum had brought Paloma to her feet. “The noon service, and so much yet left undone!” she cried. She gave a backward nod to Señor John, caught up one of the father’s hands upon her wrist, dutifully kissed it, and went out the door through which she had come. “That warning in the night,” said the young painter, “--it saved the town?” “Yes.” The father went to the window and leaned his hands on the sill. “Little wonder that they lag,” he said again, as if to himself. Then, to Señor John: “See!--for I am an old man and my eyes are poor--is that Roberta Allen? _She_ does not know fear of the ford.” The young man also looked out. A girl was slowly passing, mounted on a spotted mustang that was wet to his hocks. She was a slender girl, in laced boots, a riding-skirt, and a waist of some thin, white stuff that the wind fluttered. She peered in through the window--a sailor hat shielding her face from the glare on the adobe wall, and her blue eyes fixed themselves eagerly upon Señor John. “Yes, father,” answered the young painter, and he smiled and bowed to the girl. Having watched after the spotted mustang for a moment, he turned to look the opposite way, where a bobbing black head showed above the untidy board fence that surrounded a near-by house. “Paloma is very beautiful,” he added presently. The father was searching in the wide seat of his cane armchair. “Aye, señor,” he admitted. “But often a pink _dulce_ has a black pulp.” “What a contrast to Miss Allen!” the other went on. The spotted mustang was entering the winding street of the pueblo.