Alessandro's tall figure and dignified
bearing were not uncommon. The Father had seen many as
fine-looking Indian men. But his voice was remarkable, and he
spoke better Spanish than was wont to be heard from Indians.
"Where are you from?" said the Father, as he held his pen poised in
hand, ready to write their names in the old raw-hide-bound book.
"Temecula, Father," replied Alessandro.
Father Gaspara dropped his pen. "The village the Americans drove
out the other day?" he cried.
"Yes, Father."
Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge from his
excitement, as usual, in pacing the floor. "Go! go! I'm done with
you! It's all over," he said fiercely to the Irish bride and groom,
who had given him their names and their fee, but were still
hanging about irresolute, not knowing if all were ended or not. "A
burning shame! The most dastardly thing I have seen yet in this
land forsaken of God!" cried the Father. "I saw the particulars of it
in the San Diego paper yesterday." Then, coming to a halt in front
of Alessandro, he exclaimed: "The paper said that the Indians were
compelled to pay all the costs of the suit; that the sheriff took their
cattle to do it.
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