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It
was
upon
that
,
at
length
,
that
his
disordered
mind
concentrated
itself
,
an
Answer
—
he
demanded
,
he
implored
an
Answer
.
Not
a
vague
visitation
of
Grace
,
not
a
formless
sense
of
Peace
;
but
an
Answer
,
something
real
,
even
if
the
reality
were
fancied
,
a
voice
out
of
the
night
,
responding
to
his
,
a
hand
in
the
dark
clasping
his
groping
fingers
,
a
breath
,
human
,
warm
,
fragrant
,
familiar
,
like
a
soft
,
sweet
caress
on
his
shrunken
cheeks
.
Alone
there
in
the
dim
half
-
light
of
the
decaying
Mission
,
with
its
crumbling
plaster
,
its
naive
crudity
of
ornament
and
picture
,
he
wrestled
fiercely
with
his
desires
—
words
,
fragments
of
sentences
,
inarticulate
,
incoherent
,
wrenched
from
his
tight
-
shut
teeth
.
But
the
Answer
was
not
in
the
church
.
Above
him
,
over
the
high
altar
,
the
Virgin
in
a
glory
,
with
downcast
eyes
and
folded
hands
,
grew
vague
and
indistinct
in
the
shadow
,
the
colours
fading
,
tarnished
by
centuries
of
incense
smoke
.
The
Christ
in
agony
on
the
Cross
was
but
a
lamentable
vision
of
tormented
anatomy
,
grey
flesh
,
spotted
with
crimson
.
The
St
.
John
,
the
San
Juan
Bautista
,
patron
saint
of
the
Mission
,
the
gaunt
figure
in
skins
,
two
fingers
upraised
in
the
gesture
of
benediction
,
gazed
stolidly
out
into
the
half
-
gloom
under
the
ceiling
,
ignoring
the
human
distress
that
beat
itself
in
vain
against
the
altar
rail
below
,
and
Angele
remained
as
before
—
only
a
memory
,
far
distant
,
intangible
,
lost
.
Vanamee
rose
,
turning
his
back
upon
the
altar
with
a
vague
gesture
of
despair
.
He
crossed
the
church
,
and
issuing
from
the
low
-
arched
door
opposite
the
pulpit
,
once
more
stepped
out
into
the
garden
.
Here
,
at
least
,
was
reality
.
The
warm
,
still
air
descended
upon
him
like
a
cloak
,
grateful
,
comforting
,
dispelling
the
chill
that
lurked
in
the
damp
mould
of
plaster
and
crumbling
adobe
.
But
now
he
found
his
way
across
the
garden
on
the
other
side
of
the
fountain
,
where
,
ranged
against
the
eastern
wall
,
were
nine
graves
.
Here
Angele
was
buried
,
in
the
smallest
grave
of
them
all
,
marked
by
the
little
headstone
,
with
its
two
dates
,
only
sixteen
years
apart
.
To
this
spot
,
at
last
,
he
had
returned
,
after
the
years
spent
in
the
desert
,
the
wilderness
—
after
all
the
wanderings
of
the
Long
Trail
.
Here
,
if
ever
,
he
must
have
a
sense
of
her
nearness
.
Close
at
hand
,
a
short
four
feet
under
that
mound
of
grass
,
was
the
form
he
had
so
often
held
in
the
embrace
of
his
arms
;
the
face
,
the
very
face
he
had
kissed
,
that
face
with
the
hair
of
gold
making
three
-
cornered
the
round
white
forehead
,
the
violet
-
blue
eyes
,
heavy
-
lidded
,
with
their
strange
oriental
slant
upward
toward
the
temples
;
the
sweet
full
lips
,
almost
Egyptian
in
their
fulness
—
all
that
strange
,
perplexing
,
wonderful
beauty
,
so
troublous
,
so
enchanting
,
so
out
of
all
accepted
standards
.
He
bent
down
,
dropping
upon
one
knee
,
a
hand
upon
the
headstone
,
and
read
again
the
inscription
.
Then
instinctively
his
hand
left
the
stone
and
rested
upon
the
low
mound
of
turf
,
touching
it
with
the
softness
of
a
caress
;
and
then
,
before
he
was
aware
of
it
,
he
was
stretched
at
full
length
upon
the
earth
,
beside
the
grave
,
his
arms
about
the
low
mound
,
his
lips
pressed
against
the
grass
with
which
it
was
covered
.
The
pent
-
up
grief
of
nearly
twenty
years
rose
again
within
his
heart
,
and
overflowed
,
irresistible
,
violent
,
passionate
.
There
was
no
one
to
see
,
no
one
to
hear
.
Vanamee
had
no
thought
of
restraint
.
He
no
longer
wrestled
with
his
pain
—
strove
against
it
.
There
was
even
a
sense
of
relief
in
permitting
himself
to
be
overcome
.
But
the
reaction
from
this
outburst
was
equally
violent
.
His
revolt
against
the
inevitable
,
his
protest
against
the
grave
,
shook
him
from
head
to
foot
,
goaded
him
beyond
all
bounds
of
reason
,
hounded
him
on
and
into
the
domain
of
hysteria
,
dementia
.
Vanamee
was
no
longer
master
of
himself
—
no
longer
knew
what
he
was
doing
.
At
first
,
he
had
been
content
with
merely
a
wild
,
unreasoned
cry
to
Heaven
that
Angele
should
be
restored
to
him
,
but
the
vast
egotism
that
seems
to
run
through
all
forms
of
disordered
intelligence
gave
his
fancy
another
turn
.
He
forgot
God
.
He
no
longer
reckoned
with
Heaven
.
He
arrogated
their
powers
to
himself
—
struggled
to
be
,
of
his
own
unaided
might
,
stronger
than
death
,
more
powerful
than
the
grave
.
He
had
demanded
of
Sarria
that
God
should
restore
Angele
to
him
,
but
now
he
appealed
directly
to
Angele
herself
.
As
he
lay
there
,
his
arms
clasped
about
her
grave
,
she
seemed
so
near
to
him
that
he
fancied
she
MUST
hear
.
And
suddenly
,
at
this
moment
,
his
recollection
of
his
strange
compelling
power
—
the
same
power
by
which
he
had
called
Presley
to
him
half
-
way
across
the
Quien
Sabe
ranch
,
the
same
power
which
had
brought
Sarria
to
his
side
that
very
evening
—
recurred
to
him
.
Concentrating
his
mind
upon
the
one
object
with
which
it
had
so
long
been
filled
,
Vanamee
,
his
eyes
closed
,
his
face
buried
in
his
arms
,
exclaimed
:
“
Come
to
me
—
Angele
—
don
’
t
you
hear
?
Come
to
me
.
”
But
the
Answer
was
not
in
the
Grave
.
Below
him
the
voiceless
Earth
lay
silent
,
moveless
,
withholding
the
secret
,
jealous
of
that
which
it
held
so
close
in
its
grip
,
refusing
to
give
up
that
which
had
been
confided
to
its
keeping
,
untouched
by
the
human
anguish
that
above
there
,
on
its
surface
,
clutched
with
despairing
hands
at
a
grave
long
made
.
