At far Lagunitas, he had said, playfully to Dolores Valois:
"Your little one will never forget the cross; she will bear it
forever."
For the incision left a deep mark on baby Isabel Valois' arm.
The old priest is strangely stirred. He has a lightning flash of
suspicion. This girl has no history; no family; no name. Who is
she?
Yet she is watched, cared for, and, even in the hours of danger,
money is provided for her. Ah, he will protect this poor lamb. But
it is sheer madness to dream of her being his lost one. True, her
age is that of the missing darling. He kneels by the bed of the
wounded innocent, and softly quavers a little old Spanish hymn. It
is a memory of his Californian days.
Great God! her lips are moving; her right hand feebly marks his
words, and as he bends over the sufferer, he hears "Santa Maria,
Madre de Dios."
Francois Ribaut falls on his knees in prayer. This nameless waif,
in her delirium, is faltering words of the cradle hymns, the baby
lispings of the heiress of Lagunitas.
A light from heaven shines upon the old priest's brow.
Is it, indeed, the heiress!
He can hear his own heart beat.
The wearied, hunted priest feels the breezes from the singing pines
once more on his fevered brow.
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