ALESSANDRO'S first answer to this cry of Ramona's was a of his arms around her; closer and closer he held her, till it was almost pain; she could hear the of his heart, but he did not speak. Then, letting his arms fall, taking her hand in his, he laid it on his forehead , and said, in a voice which was so husky and trembling she could barely understand his words: “My Senorita knows that my life is hers. She can ask me to go into the fire or into the sea, and neither the fire nor the sea would frighten me; they would but make me glad for her sake. But I cannot take my Senorita's life to throw it away. She is tender; she would die; she cannot lie on the earth for a bed, and have no food to eat. My Senorita does not know what she says.”  
His solemn tone; this third-person designation, as if he were speaking of her, not with her, almost as if he were thinking aloud to God rather than speaking to her, merely calmed and strengthened, did not Ramona. “I am strong; I can work too, Alessandro. You do not know. We can both work. I am not afraid to lie on the earth; and God will give us food,” she said.
 
“That was what I thought, my Senorita, until now. When I rode away that morning, I had it in my thoughts, as you say, that if you were not afraid, I would not be; and that there would at least always be food, and I could make it that you should never suffer; but, Senorita, the saints are . They do not pray for us any more. It is as my father said, they have us. These Americans will destroy us all. I do not know but they will presently begin to shoot us and poison us, to get us all out of the country, as they do the rabbits and the gophers; it would not be any worse than what they have done. Would not you rather be dead, Senorita, than be as I am to-day?”
 
Each word he but Ramona's determination to share his lot. “Alessandro,” she interrupted, “there are many men among your people who have wives, are there not?”
 
“Yes, Senorita!” replied Alessandro, wonderingly.
 
“Have their wives left them and gone away, now that this trouble has come?”
 
“No, Senorita.” still more wonderingly; “how could they?”
 
“They are going to stay with them, help them to earn money, try to make them happier, are they not?”
 
“Yes, Senorita.” Alessandro began to see whither these questions tended. It was not unlike the Senora's tactics, the way in which Ramona narrowed in her lines of interrogation.
 
“Do the women of your people love their husbands very much?”
 
“Very much, Senorita.” A pause. It was very dark now. Alessandro could not see the hot currents running swift and red over Ramona's face; even her neck changed color as she asked her last question. “Do you think any one of them loves her husband more than I love you, Alessandro?”
 
Alessandro's arms were again around her, before the words were done. Were not such words enough to make a dead man live? Almost; but not enough to make such a love as Alessandro's selfish. Alessandro was silent.
 
“You know there is not one!” said Ramona, impetuously.
 
“Oh, it is too much!” cried Alessandro, throwing his arms up wildly. Then, drawing her to him again, he said, the words pouring out breathless: “My Senorita, you take me to the door of heaven, but I dare not go in. I know it would kill you, Senorita, to live the life we must live. Let me go, dearest Senorita; let me go! It had been better if you had never seen me.”
 
“Do you know what I was going to do, Alessandro, if you had not come?” said Ramona. “I was going to run away from the Senora's house, all alone, and walk all the way to Santa Barbara, to Father Salvierderra, and ask him to put me in the convent at San Juan Bautista; and that is what I will do now if you leave me!”
 
“Oh, no, no, Senorita, my Senorita, you will not do that! My beautiful Senorita in the convent! No, no!” cried Alessandro, greatly .
 
“Yes, if you do not let me come with you, I shall do it. I shall set out to-morrow.”
 
Her words carried conviction to Alessandro's soul. He knew she would do as she said. “Even that would not be so dreadful as to be hunted like a wild beast, Senorita; as you may be, if you come with me.”
 
“When I thought you were dead, Alessandro, I did not think the convent would be dreadful at all. I thought it would be peace; and I could do good, teaching the children. But if I knew you were alive, I could never have peace; not for one minute have peace, Alessandro! I would rather die, than not be where you are. Oh, Alessandro, take me with you!”
 
Alessandro was conquered. “I will take you, my most beloved Senorita,” he said gravely,—no lover's gladness in his tone, and his voice was hollow; “I will take you. Perhaps the saints will have mercy on you, even if they have forsaken me and my people!”
 
“Your people are my people, dearest; and the saints never any one who does not forsake them. You will be glad all our lives long, Alessandro,” cried Ramona; and she laid her head on his breast in solemn silence for a moment, as if registering a .
 
Well might Felipe have said that he would hold himself fortunate if any woman ever loved him as Ramona loved Alessandro.
 
When she lifted her head, she said timidly, now that she was sure, “Then you will take your Ramona with you, Alessandro?”
 
“I will take you with me till I die; and may the Madonna guard you, my Ramona,” replied Alessandro, clasping her to his breast, and bowing his head upon hers. But there were tears in his eyes, and they were not tears of joy; and in his heart he said, as in his rapturous delight when he first saw Ramona bending over the under the he had said aloud, “My God! what shall I do!”
 
It was not easy to decide on the best plan of procedure now. Alessandro wished to go boldly to the house, see Senor Felipe, and if need be the Senora. Ramona quivered with terror at the bare mention of it. “You do not know the Senora, Alessandro,” she cried, “or you would never think of it. She has been terrible all this time. She hates me so that she would kill me if she dared. She pretends that she will do nothing to prevent my going away; but I believe at the last minute she would throw me in the well in the court-yard, rather than have me go with you.”
 
“I would never let her harm you,” said Alessandro. “Neither would Senor Felipe.”
 
“She turns Felipe round her finger as if he were soft wax,” answered Ramona. “She makes him of a hundred minds in a minute, and he can't help himself. Oh, I think she is in league with the fiends, Alessandro! Don't dare to come near the house; I will come here as soon as every one is asleep. We must go at once.”
 
Ramona's terrors overruled Alessandro's , and he consented to wait for her at the spot where they now stood. She turned back twice to embrace him again. “Oh, my Alessandro, promise me that you will not stir from this place till I come,” she said.
 
“I will be here when you come,” he said.
 
“It will not be more than two hours,” she said, “or three, at the utmost. It must be nine o'clock now.”
 
She did not observe that Alessandro had the promise not to leave the spot. That promise Alessandro would not have given. He had something to do in preparation for this unexpected flight of Ramona. In her , her absorption in her thoughts of Alessandro and of love, she had never seemed to consider how she would make this long journey. As Alessandro had ridden towards Temecula, eighteen days ago, he had pictured himself riding back on his fleet, strong Benito, and bringing Antonio's matchless little dun for Ramona to ride. Only eighteen short days ago; and as he was dreaming that very dream, he had looked up and seen Antonio on the little dun mare, towards him like the wind, the creature's breath coming from her like pants of a steam-engine, and her sides dripping blood, where Antonio, who loved her, had not spared the cruel spurs; and Antonio, seeing him, had uttered a cry, and flinging himself off, came with a bound to his side, and with between his words told him. Alessandro could not remember the words, only that after them he set his teeth, and dropping the , laid his head down between Benito's ears, and whispered to him; and Benito never stopped, but on all that day, till he came into Temecula; and there Alessandro saw the roofless houses, and the being loaded, and the people running about, the women and children ; and then they showed him the place where his father lay on the ground, under the tule, and jumping off Benito he let him go, and that was the last he ever saw of him. Only eighteen days ago! And now here he was, under the willows,—the same copse where he first halted, at his first sight of Ramona; and it was night, dark night, and Ramona had been there, in his arms; she was his; and she was going back presently to go away with him,—where! He had no home in the wide world to which to take her,—and this poor beast he had ridden from Temecula, had it strength enough left to carry her? Alessandro doubted. He had himself walked more than half the distance, to spare the creature, and yet there had been good pasture all the way; but the animal had been too long starved to recover quickly. In the Pachanga canon, where they had found refuge, the grass was burned up by the sun, and the few horses taken over there had suffered wretchedly; some had died. But Alessandro, even while his arms were around Ramona, had in his mind a project he would not have dared to to her. If Baba, Ramona's own horse, was still in the corral, Alessandro could without difficulty him out. He thought it would be no sin. At any rate, if it were, it could not be avoided. The Senorita must have a horse, and Baba had always been her own; had followed her about like a dog ever since he could run; in fact, the only taming he had ever had, had been done by Ramona, with bread and honey. He was intractable to others; but Ramona could guide him by a wisp of his silky mane. Alessandro also had nearly as complete control over him; for it had been one of his greatest pleasures, during the summer, when he could not see Ramona, to and fondle her horse, till Baba knew and loved him next to his young mistress. If only Baba were in the corral, all would be well. As soon as the sound of Ramona's footsteps had died away, Alessandro followed with quick but stealthy steps; keeping well down in the bottom, below the willows, he skirted the terrace where the artichoke-patch and the sheepfolds lay, and then turned up to approach the corral from the farther side. There was no light in any of the herdsmen's huts. They were all asleep. That was good. Well Alessandro knew how sound they slept; many a night while he slept there with them he had walked twice over their bodies as they lay stretched on skins on the floor,—out and in without rousing them. If only Baba would not give a loud whinny. leaning on the corral-fence, Alessandro gave a low, hardly audible whistle. The horses were all in a group together at the farther end of the corral. At the sound there was a slight movement in the group; and one of them turned and came a pace or two toward Alessandro.
 
“I believe that is Baba himself,” thought Alessandro; and he made another low sound. The horse quickened his steps; then halted, as if he suspected some .
 
“Baba,” whispered Alessandro. The horse knew his name as well as any dog; knew Alessandro's voice too; but the sagacious creature seemed to know that here was an occasion for and caution. If Alessandro whispered, he, Baba, would whisper back; and it was little more than a whispered whinny which he gave, as he quickly to the fence, and put his nose to Alessandro's face, rubbing and kissing and giving soft whinnying sighs.
 
“! hush! Baba,” whispered Alessandro, as if he were speaking to a human being. “Hush!” and he proceeded cautiously to lift off the upper rails and bushes of the fence. The horse understood instantly; and as soon as the fence was a little lowered, leaped over it and stood still by Alessandro's side, while he replaced the rails, smiling to himself, spite of his grave anxiety, to think of Juan Can's wonder in the morning as to how Baba had managed to get out of the corral.
 
This had taken only a few moments. It was better luck than Alessandro had hoped for; by it, he began to wonder if he could not get the saddle too. The saddles, harnesses, , and all such things hung on in an open barn, such as is constantly to be seen in Southern California; as significant a , in matter of climate, as any Signal Service Report could be,—a floor and a roof; no walls, only corner posts to hold the roof. Nothing but summerhouses on a large scale are the South California barns. Alessandro stood . The longer he thought, the greater grew his desire for that saddle.
 
“Baba, if only you knew what I wanted of you, you'd lie down on the ground here and wait while I got the saddle. But I dare not risk leaving you. Come, Baba!” and he struck down the hill again, the horse following him softly. When he got down below the terrace, he broke into a run, with his hand in Baba's mane, as if it were a frolic; and in a few moments they were safe in the copse, where Alessandro's poor was tethered. Fastening Baba with the same , Alessandro patted him on the neck, pressed his face to his nose, and said aloud, “Good Baba, stay here till the Senorita comes.” Baba whinnied.
 
“Why shouldn't he know the Senorita's name! I believe he does!” thought Alessandro, as he turned and again ran swiftly back to the corral. He felt strong now,—felt like a new man. Spite of all the terror, joy thrilled him. When he reached the corral, all was yet still. The horses had not moved from their former position. Throwing himself flat on the ground, Alessandro crept on his breast from the corral to the barn, several rods' distance. This was the most part of his adventure; every other moment he paused, lay motionless for some seconds, then crept a few paces more. As he neared the corner where Ramona's saddle always hung, his heart beat. Sometimes, of a warm night, Luigo slept on the barn floor. If he were there to-night, all was lost. Groping in the darkness, Alessandro pulled himself up on the post, felt for the saddle, found it, lifted it, and in a trice was flat on the ground again, drawing the saddle along after him. Not a sound had he made, that the most of sheep-dogs could hear.
 
“Ha, old Capitan, caught you napping this time!” said Alessandro to himself, as at last he got safe to the bottom of the terrace, and, springing to his feet, bounded away with the saddle on his shoulders. It was a weight for a starving man to carry, but he felt it not, for the rejoicing he had in its possession. Now his Senorita would go in comfort. To ride Baba was to be rocked in a cradle. If need be, Baba would carry them both, and never know it; and it might come to that, Alessandro thought, as he knelt by the side of his poor beast, which was stretched out on the ground ; Baba by, looking down in scornful wonder at this strange new associate.
 
“The saints be praised!” thought Alessandro, as he seated himself to wait. “This looks as if they would not desert my Senorita.”
 
Thoughts whirled in his brain. Where should they go first? What would be best? Would they be pursued? Where could they hide? Where should he seek a new home?
 
It was bootless thinking, until Ramona was by his side. He must lay each plan before her. She must decide. The first thing was to get to San Diego, to the priest, to be married. That would be three days' hard ride; five for the exhausted Indian pony. What should they eat on the ways Ah! Alessandro bethought him of the violin at Hartsel's. Mr. Hartsel would give him money on that; perhaps buy it. Then Alessandro remembered his own violin. He had not once thought of it before. It lay in its case on a table in Senor Felipe's room when he came away, Was it possible? No, of course it could not be possible that the Senorita would think to bring it. What would she bring? She would be wise, Alessandro was sure.
 
How long the hours seemed as he sat thus plotting and ; more and more thankful, as each hour went by, to see the sky still clouded, the darkness . “It must have been the saints, too, that brought me on a night when there was no moon,” he thought; and............