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 "Don Geronimo struck the first blow; let him come to me," Juan replied.

"It cannot be," Padre Ignacio sighed, despairing of making him understand.

"Then there's nothing for me but to leave."

Padre Ignacio did not speak. He sat with head bent, overwhelmed by a cataract of thought. One sandalled foot was set beyond the shadow of the table, a sturdy, dusty foot that seemed as if it had come to rest but then from tramping the long white trails of that summer-land.

"Will you permit me to take the horse that fell into my hands from Alvitre?" Juan inquired.

"But I will be happier to know that you are alive, filling the useful destiny that God has planned for you, than dead here by Don Geronimo's hand," Padre Ignacio said, his head still bent, his voice low. "The horse?" looking up suddenly, as if the words had only penetrated his ear that moment. "Take him, Juan. I wish I could give you riches to load his back. But you will prosper without that. Only tell me, Juan, that you will hang a bell in a little church some day in your own country in memory of your old friend who wished you well, but could do so little for your happiness."

"You have saved my life, Padre Ignacio." Juan touched the brown hand that lay on the table near him with firm pressure, assurance of his sincere gratefulness.

"By my cruel edict I save it again, for you will