Violence is vain,
here.
It seems to him as if the dead mother of an orphan child had placed
her hand upon his brow and said: "Wait and hope!"
Monte Cristo's motto once more.
The padre eyes the Comstock colonel under his thin lashes.
"My friend"--his voice trembles--"I can tell you nothing yet, but
I will guide you. I will not see you go wrong."
"Square deal, padre!" roars Joseph, with memories of gigantic
poker deals. Irreverent Joe.
"Square deal," says the priest, solemnly, as he lays an honest
man's hand in that of its peer. He knows the Californian force of
this appeal to honor. Joseph selects several cigars. He fusses with
his neckgear strangely.
"Vamos, amigo," he cries, in tones learned from the muleteers of
the far West.
Once in the halls of "Madame de Santos," Colonel Joe is the pink
of Western elegance. The acute sense of the Missourian lends him
a certain dignity, in spite of his gaudy attire.
Under fire, this Western pilgrim can affect a "sang froid" worthy
of Fontenoy.
Radiant in white clinging "crepe de Chine," her "prononcee" beauty
unaccentuated by the baubles of the jeweller, Madame de Santos
greets the visitors.
A blue circle under her eyes tells of a vigil of either love or
hate.
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