The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

The midnight stars watched over the mission.  Framed by the cross-shaped window sunk deep in the adobe wall above the entrance, a mass of them assumed the form of the crucifix, throwing a golden trail full upon the Lady of Loreto, proud in her shining pearls.  The long narrow body of the church seemed to have swallowed the shadows of the ages, and to yawn for more.

De la Vega, booted and spurred, his serape folded about him, his sombrero on his head, opened the sacristy door and entered the church.  In one hand he held a sack; in the other, a candle sputtering in a bottle.  He walked deliberately to the foot of the altar.  In spite of his intrepid spirit, he stood appalled for a moment as he saw the dim radiance enveloping the Lady of Loreto.  He scowled over his shoulder at the menacing emblem of redemption and crossed himself.  But had it been the finger of God, the face of Ysabel would have shone between.  He extinguished his candle, and swinging himself to the top of the altar plucked the pearls from the Virgin’s gown and dropped them into the sack.  His hand trembled a little, but he held his will between his teeth.

How quiet it was!  The waves flung themselves upon the shore with the sullen wrath of impotence.  A seagull screamed now and again, an exclamation-point in the silence above the waters.  Suddenly De la Vega shook from head to foot, and snatched the knife from his belt.  A faint creaking echoed through the hollow church.  He strained his ears, holding his breath until his chest collapsed with the shock of outrushing air.  But the sound was not repeated, and he concluded that it had been but a vibration of his nerves.  He glanced to the window above the doors.  The stars in it were no longer visible; they had melted into bars of flame.  The sweat stood cold on his face, but he went on with his work.

A rope of pearls, cunningly strung together with strands of sea-weed, was wound about the Virgin’s right arm.  De la Vega was too nervous to uncoil it; he held the sack beneath, and severed the strands with his knife.  As he finished, and was about to stoop and cut loose the pearls from the hem of the Virgin’s gown, he uttered a hoarse cry and stood rigid.  A cowled head, with thin lips drawn over yellow teeth, furious eyes burning deep in withered sockets, projected on its long neck from the Virgin’s right and confronted him.  The body was unseen.

“Thief!” hissed the priest.  “Dog!  Thou wouldst rob the Church?  Accursed! accursed!”

There was not one moment for hesitation, one alternative.  Before the priest could complete his malediction, De la Vega’s knife had flashed through the fire of the cross.  The priest leaped, screeching, then rolled over and down, and rebounded from the railing of the sanctuary.