Dark memories hover around some of the great mines of the Pacific. Giant stock operations resulted from a seeming accidental fire. A mine filled with water by mysterious breakage of huge pumps. Hoisting machinery suddenly unmanageable; dashing to their doom unsuspecting wretches. Imprisoned miners, walled up in rich drifts, have died under stifling smoke, so that their secrets would die with them.

Grinning Molochs of finance have turned markets on these ghastly tricks.

Madame de Santos may never suspect how a steel spike adroitly set could cut a rope and dash even a noble Villa Rocca to his doom, carrying down innocent men as a mask to the crime.

In the clear sky of Natalie's complacency, a lightning stroke of the gods brings her palace of delight crashing down around her. Nemesis!

The telegraph flashes across the prairies, far beneath the Atlantic; the news of Villa Rocca's death arrives. Hardin's cable is brief. It is all-sufficient. Her trembling limbs give way. She reads:

SAN FRANCISCO.

Count Ernesto killed while visiting a mine, with friends. Accident of hoisting machinery. I was not there. Leave to-night for the place. Telegraph your wishes. Remain. Wait my reports. Write fully in a few days.

HARDIN.

She is all alone on earth. This is a crushing blow. No one to trust. None to advise, for she has leaned on Ernesto. Her mind reels under this blow. Pere Francois is her only stay. The sorrow of these days needs expression.

Villa Rocca's gay letters continue to arrive. They are a ghastly mockery of these hours. Hardin can cast her off now, and claim the heiress.

Hardin's full account dispels any suspicion of foul play. After a visit to the interior, the count went to see some interesting underground workings. By a hazard of mining life, a broken rope caused the death of the visitor, with several workmen, and a mine superintendent who was doing the honors. Death waited at the foot of the shaft for the noble stranger.

Hundreds of days, on thousands of trips like this, the princes of the Comstock have risked their own lives in the perils of the yawning pits. These dark holes blown out of the mountain rocks have their fearful death-rolls to show.

It is the revenge of the gnomes. Every detail points to a frank explanation. Journals and reports, with letters from the Italian consul, lifted the sad tragedy above any chance of crime or collusion. It is kismet.

Hardin's letter was manly. In it, he pledged his honor to carry out the agreement, advising Natalie to select a friend to accompany her to California with the heiress, as soon as she could travel. His banker had orders to supply funds.

"I suggest, in view of this untimely accident, you would sooner have your funds settled on you in Europe. It shall be as you wish. You may rely on me," so ran the closing lines.

The parted strands of the hoisting cable cannot reveal whether it was cut or weakened, yet Hardin knows. It was his devilish masterpiece.

Days of sadness drag down the self-reliant adventuress. Whom can she trust now? Dare she confide in Pere Francois?

A simple envelope addressed in a scrawling hand, and postmarked San Francisco, drives all sorrow from her heart. The tiger is loosened in her nature. She rages madly. A newspaper slip contains the following, in flaming prominence:

"THE UNITED STATES SENATE.

"The choice of the Legislature for U. S. Senator will undoubtedly fall upon that distinguished jurist Judge Hardin, who is now supported by the railroad kings and leading financiers of the coast.

"It is rumored that Judge Hardin will, in the event of his election, contract a matrimonial alliance with one of our leaders of society. His bride will entertain extensively in the national capital."

A paper bears pithy advice:

"Come out and strike for your rights. You will find a friend to back you up. Don't delay."

Natalie recognizes Joe Woods in this. He is the only man knowing half the secret. Tossing on her pillow, the Queen of the El Dorado suffers the tortures of the Inferno. Now is the time to strike Hardin. Before the great senatorial contest. Before this cruel marriage. She will boldly claim a secret marriage. The funds now in the Paris bank are safe. She can blast his career. If she does not take the heiress out, her chances vanish. And once there, what will not Hardin do? What is Woods' motive? Jealousy. Revenge. Hatred.

Ah, the priest! She will unbosom herself to Pere Francois. She will urge him to accompany her and the girl to San Franciso. He will be a "background." And his unrivalled calmness and wisdom. Pere Francois only knows her as the "elegante" of the Champs Elysees. She feels that Woods has been wisely discreet.

Summoning the ecclesiastic, Madame de Santos tells the story of her claims upon Hardin.

The old Frenchman passes his rosary beads, with a clinking sound, as he listens to the half-truths told him.

"And your child?" he queries.

"I have placed her secretly where Hardin cannot reach her. She will be produced if needed."

There is a peculiar smile in the priest's face. "Madame, I will accompany you on one condition."

"Name it," cries the siren, "I will furnish money, and every comfort for you. It shall be my duty to reward you."

The priest bows gravely.

"I wish to have a resolute man with our party. My young friend, Raoul Dauvray, has a lion's courage. Let him go with us. I do not wish Judge Hardin to know of my presence in San Francisco. Dauvray will guard you with his life."

"I agree to your wishes!" says madame thoughtfully. And loyal Raoul will fight for her and his hoped-for bride. In a month there is a notable departure from Paris. Madame de Santos, Mademoiselle Isabel Valois, with their maids, and Raoul, "en cavalier." On the same steamer, Pere Francois travels. He affects no intimacy with the distinguished voyagers. His breviary takes up all his time. Arrived at New York, Pere Francois leaves for San Francisco several days in advance of the others.

It is singular that he goes no farther than Sacramento. The legislature is about to assemble. Joseph Woods, as State senator, is launched in political life. The robust miner laughs when he is asked why he accepts these cheap honors.

"I'm not too old to learn some new tricks," he cheerfully remarks. His questions soon exhaust Pere Francois' stock of answers.

A day's conference between the friends leads to a series of Napoleon-like mandates of the mining Croesus. Telegraph and cable bear abroad to the shores of the Lake of Geneva the summons which brings Peyton, with Armand Valois and the lovely blooming "Louise Moreau," secretly to the Pacific. Natalie knows nothing of these pilgrims. Quietly reaching San Francisco, by a local train, Pere Francois becomes again Padre Francisco. He rests his weary head under the hallowing sounds of the well-remembered bells of the past at the Mission Dolores.

Natalie de Santos rubs her eyes in wonder at the queen city of the West, with its conquered hills and vanished sand-dunes. Whirled away to a secure quiet retreat in a convent, selected by Pere Francois, the heiress and her young guardian are safe from even Hardin's wiles.

Pere Francois at New York has conferred a day with Judge Davis, and bids his new charge be calm and trust to his own advice. Isabel Valois is in a maze of new impressions, and bewildered by a strange language.

Bravely attired, and of a generous port, Raoul Dauvray installs himself in one of the palatial hotels which are the pride of the occidental city. Colonel Joseph Woods is conspicuously absent.

When the fatigue of travel is over, Natalie de Santos quietly summons Philip Hardin to the interview she dreads. She has been prepared by Pere Francois for this ordeal. Yet her tiger blood leaps up in bubbling floods. She will at last face the would-be traitor, and upbraid him. Oh, for one resolute friend!

It is in another convent that lovely "Isabel Valois" is concealed. The heiress longs to burst her bonds. Is not Raoul near her? Assured of a necessity for patience, the wayward beauty bides her time. Every day the roses she caresses, whisper to her of the ardent lover who sighs near her in vain.

Philip Hardin steels himself to face the woman he intends to trick and deceive at the very last. There are such things as insane asylums in California, if she makes any hubbub.

But he has a "coup d'etat" in his mind. The old schemer will bring Natalie to terms. Flattery first; fear afterwards.

"And they are face to face once more."



CHAPTER XIX.

LOVERS ONCE.—STRANGERS NOW.—FACE TO FACE.



Ushered into a private room, the soulless Hardin's iron nerves fail him. His heart leaps up wildly when royal "Madame de Santos" approaches silently. Heavens! Her startling beauty is only mellowed with time. Another woman than the Hortense Duval of old stands before him. A goddess.

She has grown into her new role in life.

"Hortense!" he eagerly cries, approaching her.

"Spare me any further deceit, Philip," she coldly replies. Seating herself, she gazes at him with flaming eyes! She is a queen at bay!

He is startled. A declaration of war. No easy mastery now.

"Where is your charge?" Hardin queries.

"Where you will not see her, until we understand each other," rejoins the determined woman. Her steady glance pierces his very soul. Memories of old days thrill his bosom.

"What do you mean by all this?" Hardin's nerve returns. He must not yield to mortal.

The woman who queened it over his home, extends a jewelled hand with an envelop. "Explain this," she sharply cries.

The Judge reads it. It is the announcement of his double senatorial and matrimonial campaign.

"Is there any foundation for that report?" Madame de Santos deliberately asks.

"There is," briefly rejoins the lawyer. He muses a moment. What devil is awakened in her now? This is no old-time pleading suppliant.

"Then you will not see Isabel until you have settled with me and provided the funds promised before the death of the count."

"Ah!" sneers the old advocate; "I understand you NOW, madame. Blood money!"

"Partly," remarks Madame de Santos. "I also insist upon your giving up this marriage."

Hardin springs from his chair. Age has robbed him of none of his cold defiance. He will crush her.

"You dare to dream of forcing me to marry you?" His eyes have the glitter of steel.

"You need not give up the senate, but you must marry me, privately, and give your own child a name. Then I will leave, with the funds you will provide. You can separate from me afterward by the mere lapse of time. There will be no publicity needed."

"Indeed!" Hardin snarls, "A nice programme, You have had some meddling fool advise you; some later confidant; some protector."

"Exactly so, Judge," replies the woman, her bosom heaving in scorn and defiance. "We have lived together. We are privately married now by law! Philip, you know the nameless girl you have never asked for is your own child."

Hardin paces the floor in white rage. He gazes sternly in her eyes. She regards his excited movements, glaring with defiant eyes. A tigress at bay.

"I will end this here, madame! In two weeks Isabel Valois will be eighteen. If she is not forthcoming I will invoke the law. If I am forced to fight you, you will not have a cent from me. I will never marry you! I decline to provide for you or yours, unless you yield this girl up. You must leave the country before the senatorial election. That is my will."

Natalie faces her old lover. Tyrant of her heart once, he is now a malignant foe!

"Philip Hardin," she pleads, "look out of that window. You can see the house my child was born in—YOUR home, OUR home! Philip, give that child a name; I will leave you in peace forever!" There is the old music in her velvet voice.

"Never!" cries the Judge. "Give up the girl you took away. Leave at once. I will secure your fortune. You cannot force me. You never could. You cannot now!" He glares defiance to the death.

His eyes tell the truth. He will not yield,

"Then God help you, Philip," the woman solemnly says. "You will never reach the Senate! You will never live to marry another woman!"

"Do you threaten me, you she-devil?" snarls Hardin, alarmed at the settled, resolute face. "I have a little piece of news for you which will block your game, my lady. There is no proof of the legitimacy of the child, Isabel Valois. A claim has already been filed by a distant Mexican relative of the Peraltas. The suit will come up soon. If the girl is declared illegitimate, you can take her back to France, and keep her as a beggar. You are in my hands!" He chuckles softly.

"Philip Hardin, you are a liar and a monster. This is your conspiracy. Now, show yourself a thief, also." Natalie retorts. The words cut the proud man like a lash.

He seizes her jewelled wrist. He is beside himself.

"Beware," she hisses. "By the God who made me, I'll strike you dead."

He recoils.

She is once more the queen of the El Dorado. Her ready knife is flashing before his eyes. "You have a fearful reckoning to answer. You will meet your match yet at the game of Life!" she cries.

But, Natalie de Santos is stunned by his devilish plot to rob the despoiled orphan even of her name. He reads her face. "I will give you a day to think this over. I will come to-morrow." Hardin's voice rings with ill-concealed triumph.

"Not ten minutes will you give me. I tell you now I will crush you in your hour of victory, if I die to do it. Once more, will you marry me and give your child a name?" She rises and paces room, a beautiful fury.

"You have your answer," he coldly replies.

"Then, may the plundered orphan's curse drag you down to the hell you merit," is Natalie's last word as she walks swiftly out of the door. She is gone.

He is alone. Somethings rings with dull foreboding in his ears as his carriage rolls away. An orphan's curse! A cold clammy feeling gnaws at his heart. An orphan's curse!

Ah! from the tomb of buried years the millionaire hears the voice of Maxime Valois and shudders:

"May God deal with you as you deal with my child."

At home, in his library, where the silken rustling of that woman's dress has thrilled him in bygone years, the old Judge drinks a glass of cognac and slowly recovers his mental balance.

Through smoke-clouds he sees the marble chamber of the Senate of the Great Republic. He must move on to the marriage, he has deferred until the election. It is a pledge of twenty votes in joint ballot.

As for the girl Isabel, why, there is no human power to prove her legitimacy now. That priest. Bah! Dead years ago. Silence has rolled the stone over his tomb.

Hardin has foreseen for years this quarrel with Natalie de Santos. But she can prove absolutely nothing. He will face her boldly. She is ALONE in the world. He can tear the veil aside and blacken her name.

And yet, as evening falls, his spirit sinks within him. He can not, will not, marry the woman who has defied him. What devil, what unseen enemy put her on his track again? If he had never trusted her. Ah, too late; too late!

Secretly he had laid his well-devised mines. The judge in Mariposa is weighted down with a golden bribe. The court officials are under his orders. But who is the unknown foe counselling Natalie? He cannot fathom it. Blackmail! Yes, blackmail.

In three days Hardin is at Sacramento. His satellites draw up their cohorts for the senatorial struggle. If the legislature names him senator, then his guardianship will be quickly settled before the Mariposa Court. There, the contest will be inaugurated, which will declare Isabel Valois a nameless child of poverty. This is the last golden lock to the millions of Lagunitas, The poor puppet he has set up to play the contestant is under his control. He had wished to see Natalie homeward bound before this denouement. It must be. He muses. Kill her! Ah, no; too dangerous. He must FOIL her.

But her mad rage at his coming marriage. Well, he knew the ambitious and stately lady who aspired to share his honors would condone the story of his early "bonnes fortunes." What could lonely Natalie do at the trial? Nothing. He has the Court in his pocket. He will brave her rage.

Hardin writes a final note, warning the woman he fears, to attend with the heiress on the day of the calling for his accounting.

Marvels never cease. He tears open the answer, after two sleepless nights. She simply replies that the young Lady of Lagunitas will be delivered to him on the appointed day. He cannot read this riddle. Is it a surrender in hopes of golden terms? He knows not of Pere Francois' advice.

He smiles in complacent glee. He has broken many a weak woman's nerve: she is only one more.

While he ponders, waiting that reply, Natalie Santos, with heavy heart, tells the priest the story of her tryst with her old lover.

Pere Francois smiles thoughtfully. He answers: "Be calm. You will be protected. Trust to me. I will confer with our advisers. Not a word to Isabel of impending trouble."

The little court-house at Mariposa is not large enough for the crowd which pours in to see the Lady of Lagunitas when the fated day approaches. It is the largest estate in the country. A number of strangers have arrived. They are targets for wild rumors. Several grave-looking arrivals are evidently advocates. There is "law" in their very eyebrows.

Raoul Dauvray escorts Madame de Santos and the girl whose rumored loveliness is famous already. Philip Hardin, with several noted counsel, is in readiness. Pere Francois is absent. There is an elderly invalid, with an Eastern party of strangers, who resembles him wonderfully.

On the case being reached, there is a busy hum of preparation. One or two professional-looking men of mysterious identity quietly take their places at the bar. In the clerk's offices there is also a bevy of strangers. By a fortuitous chance, the stalwart form of Colonel Joe Woods illuminates the dingy court-room. His business is not on the calendar, He sits idly playing with a huge diamond ring until the "matter of the guardianship of Isabel Valois" is reached.

Several lawyers spring to their feet at once. A queer gleam is in Joe Woods' eye as he nods carelessly to Hardin. They are both Knights of the Golden Circle.

Judge Hardin's counsel opens the case, Hardin passes Natalie in the court-room, with one last look of warning and menace. There is no quiver to her eyelids. The graceful figure of a veiled young girl is beside her.

When Hardin's advocate ceases, counsel rises to bring the contest for the heirship of Lagunitas to the judicial notice of the Court.

The Judge is asked to stay the confirmation of the guardian's accounts and reports. His Honor blandly asks if the young lady is in court.

"Let Isabel Valois take the stand," is the direction.

Judge Hardin arises and passing to Natalie Santos, whose glittering eyes are steadily fixed on his, in an inscrutable gaze, leads the young lady beside her to the stand. Natalie has whispered a few words of cheer.

All eyes are fixed upon the beautiful stranger, who is removing a veil from a face of the rarest loveliness. There is a sensation.

Philip Hardin rises to his feet, ghastly pale, as Joseph Woods quietly leads up to the platform a slight, girlish form. It is another veiled woman, who quietly seats herself beside the claimant.

There is amazement in the court-room, "His Honor," with a startled glance at Judge Hardin, who is gazing vacantly at the two figures before him, says, "Which of these young ladies is Miss Isabel Valois?"

A voice is heard. It is one of the strange counselors speaking.

Hardin hears the words, as if each stabbed him to the heart.

"Your Honor, we are prepared to show that the last young lady who has taken the stand, is Miss Isabel Valois."

There is consternation in the assembly. Hardin's veins are knotted on his forehead. He stares blankly at the two girls. His eyes turn to Natalie de Santos. She is gazing as if the grave had given up its dead. Her cheeks whiten to ashes. Pere Francois, Henry Peyton, and Armand Valois enter and seat themselves quietly by the side of the man who is speaking. What does this all mean? No one knows. The lawyer resumes.

"We will show your Honor, by the evidence of the priest who baptized her, and by the records of the church, that this young lady is the lawful and only child of Maxime Valois and Dolores Peralta. We have abundant proof to explain the seeming paradox. We are in a position to positively identify the young lady, and to dispose of the contest raised here to-day, as to the marriage of the parents of the real heiress."

Philip Hardin has sprung to his lawyers. They are amazed at the lovely apparition of another Isabel Valois. At the bidding of the Court, Louise Moreau's gentle face appears.

"And who is the other young lady, according to your theory?" falters the astounded judge, who cannot on the bench receive the support of his Mephistopheles.

"We will leave that to be proved, your Honor! We will prove OUR client to be Isabel Valois. We will prove the other lady not to be. It remains for the guardian, who produces her, to show who she may be." The lawyer quietly seats himself.

There is a deadlock. There is confusion in court. Side by side are seated two dark-eyed girls, in the flush of a peerless young womanhood. Lovely and yet unlike in facial lines, they are both daughters of the South. Their deep melting eyes are gazing, in timid wonder, at each other. They are strangers.

"What is the name of your witness?" the judge mechanically questions. The lawyer calmly answers, "Francois Ribaut (known in religion as 'Padre Francisco'), who married the father and mother of this young lady, and also baptized her."

A faint sob from Natalie breaks the silence. Her eyes are filled with sudden tears. She knows the truth at last. The priest has risen. Hardin looks once more upon that pale countenance of the padre which has haunted his dreams so long. "Is it one from the dead?" he murmurs. But, with quick wit, his lawyer demands to place on the witness stand, the lady charged with the nurture of "Isabel Valois." Philip Hardin gazes wolfishly at the royal beauty who is sworn. A breathless silence wraps the room.

The preliminary questions over, while Hardin's eyes rove wildly over the face of the woman he has cast off, the direct interrogatory is asked:

"Do you know who this young lady is?" says the attorney, with a furtive prompting from Hardin. "I do!" answers the lady, with broken voice.

Before another question can be asked, the colleagues of Hardin's leading lawyer hold a whispered colloquy with their chief.

There is a breathless silence in the court. The principal attorney for the guardian asks the Court for a postponement of two weeks.

"We were prepared to meet an inquiry into the legitimacy of the ward of our client. This production of another claimant to the same name, is a surprise to us. On account of the gravity of this matter, we ask for a stay."

No objection is heard. His Honor, anxious himself to have time to confer with the would-be senator, adjourns the hearing for two weeks.

Before Hardin could extricate himself from the circle of his advisers, the long-expected girl he has seen for the first time has disappeared with Madame de Santos. He has no control over her now. Too late!

His blood is bounding through his veins. He has been juggled with. By whom? Natalie, that handsome fiend. And yet, she was paralyzed at the apparition of the second beauty, who has also vanished.

He must see Natalie at once before she can frame a new set of lies. After all, the MINE is safe.

As he strides swiftly across the plaza, the thought of the senatorial election, and the lady whom he has to placate, presses on his mind.

As for the election, he will secure that. If Natalie attempts exposure, he will claim it to be a blackmail invention of political enemies. Ha! Money! Yes, the golden arguments of concrete power. He will use it in floods of double eagles.

He will see Natalie on her way to Paris before the second hearing. Yes, and send some one out of the State to watch her as far as New York. He must buy her off.

A part of the money in hand; the rest payable at Paris to her own order. She must be out of the way.

Mariposa boasts two hotels. The avoidance of Hardin's friends brings all the strangers, perforce, together in the other. They have been strangely private in their habits.

Philip Hardin's brow is set. It is no time for trifling. He sends his name up to Madame de Santos. She begs to be excused. "Would Judge Hardin kindly call in the evening?"

This would be after a council of war of his enemies. It must be prevented. He pens a few words on a scrap of paper, and waits with throbbing pulses,

"Madame will receive him." As he walks upstairs, he realizes he has to face a reckoning with Joe Woods. He will make that clumsy-headed Croesus rue the day. And yet Woods is in the State Senate, and may oppose his election.

With his eyes fixed on the doors of Natalie's apartment, he does not notice Woods gazing at him, from the end of the hall, in the open door of the portico.

Natalie motions him to a seat as he enters. He looks at her in amazement. She is not the same woman who entered that court-house. He speaks. The sound of his own voice makes him start.

"What is all this devil's tomfoolery? Explain it to me. Are you mad?" His suppressed feelings overmaster him. He gives way to an imprudent rage.

"Are you ready to marry me? Are you ready to keep the oath you swore to stand by me?" Her dark eyes burn into his heart. She is calm, but intense in her demand.

"Tell me the truth or I'll choke it out of you," he hisses, grasping her rudely.

His rashness breaks the last bond between them. A shriek from the struggling woman echoes through the room.

The door flies open.

Hardin is hurled to the wall, reeling blindly.

The energetic voice of Joe Woods breaks the silence. "You are a mean dog, but, by God, I did not think you'd strangle a woman."

Hardin has struggled to his feet. In his hand, flashes a pistol.

Joe Woods smiles.

"Trying the old El Dorado dodge, Judge, won't work. Sit down now. Listen to me. Put up that shooting iron, or I'll nail you to the wall."

His bowie knife presses a keen point to Hardin's breast. It is checkmate.

Natalie Santos is buried in the cushions of her chair. She is sobbing wildly. Shuffling feet are at the door. The fracas has been overheard.

Joe Woods quietly opens it. He speaks calmly. "The lady has fainted. It's all right. Go away."

Through the door a girl's lovely face is seen, in frightened shyness. "I'll send for you, miss, soon," Colonel Joe remarks, with awkward sympathy.

He seats himself nonchalantly.

"Now, Hardin, I've got a little account to settle with you. I'll give you all the time you want. But I'll say right here before this lady, I know you are under an obligation to treat her decently.

"I remember her at the El Dorado!"

Hardin springs to his feet. Natalie raises her tearful eyes.

"Keep cool, Judge," continues the speaker. "You used to take care of her. Now I'm a-going to advise her in her little private affairs. I want you to let her severely alone. I want you to treat her as she deserves; like a woman, not a beast. You can finish this interview with her. I'm a-going out. If you approach her after this, without my presence or until she sends for you, I'll scatter your brains with my old six-shooter. I shall see she gets a square deal. She's not going to leave California till this whole business is cleared up. You hear me." Joe's mood is dangerous.

"Now go ahead with your palaver, madame. I'm not going to leave the house. I know my business, and I'll stand by you as long as my name is Joe Woods. When you're done I want you to see me, and see my lawyer."

There is silence. Natalie's eyes give the stalwart miner a glance of unutterable thankfulness.

She has met a man at last.

Her bosom heaves with pride, her eyes beam on rough old Joe. Woods has taken out an unusually long cigar. He lights it at the door, and leisurely proceeds to smoke it on the upper veranda.

When his foot-fall dies away, Hardin essays to speak. His lips are strangely dry. He mutters something, and the words fail him. Natalie interrupts, with scorn: "Curse you and your money, you cowardly thief. You have met your match at last. I trusted to your honor. Your hands were on my throat just now. I have but one word to say to you now. Go, face that man out there!" Hardin is in a blind rage.

His legal vocabulary finds no ready phrase of adieu. His foot is on the top stair. Joe Woods says carelessly:

"Judge, you and I had better have a little talk to-night." Ah, his enemy! He knows him at last. Hardin hoarsely mutters: "Where? when?"

"When you please," says Woods.

"Ten, to-night; your room. I'll bring a friend with me." Hardin nods, and passes on, crossing the square to his hotel. He must have time for thought; for new plans; for revenge; yes, bloody revenge.

Colonel Joseph Woods spends an hour in conference with Peyton and Father Francois. Their plans are all finished.

Judge Davis, who is paralyzed by the vehemence of California character, caresses his educated whiskers. He pets his eye-glasses, while the three gentlemen confer. He is essentially a man of peace. He fears he may become merely a "piece of man" in case the appeal to revolvers, or mob law, is brought into this case. They do things differently in New York.

While the two lovely girls are using every soothing art of womanly sympathy to care for Natalie, it begins to dawn upon each of them that their futures are strangely interlinked. The presence of Madame de Santos seals their lips. They long for the hour when they can converse in private. They know now that the redoubtable Joe Woods has TWO fatherless girls to protect instead of ONE.

Natalie Santos, lying on her couch, watches these young beauties flitting about her room. "Does the heiress, challenged in her right, dream of her real parentage?" A gleam of light breaks in on the darkness of her sufferings. Why not peace and the oblivion of retirement for her, if her child's future is assured in any way? Why not?

Looking forward hopefully to a conference with Colonel Joe, she fears only the clear eyes of old Padre Francisco. "Shall she tell him all?" In these misgivings and vain rackings of the mind, she passes the afternoon. She yields to her better angel, and gives the story of her life to the patient priest.

Armand Valois and Raoul Dauvray have a blessed new bond of brotherhood. They are both lovers. With Padre Francisco, they are a guard of honor, watching night and day the two heiresses.

They share the secret consciousness of Natalie de Santos that Joe Woods has in store some great stroke.

Judge Davis, Peyton, and the resolute Joe are the only calm ones in the settlement. For, far and wide the news runs of racy developments. In store, saloon, and billiard lounging-place, on the corners, and around the deserted court-room, knots of cigar-smoking scandal-mongers assuage their inward cravings by frequent resort to the never-failing panacea—whiskey. Wild romances are current, in which two great millionaires, two sets of lawyers, duplicate heiresses, two foreign dukes, the old padre and the queenly madame are the star actors in a thrilling local drama, which is so far unpunctuated by the crack of the revolver.

It is a struggle for millions, and the clash of arms will surely come.

There has been no great issue ever resolved in Mariposa before the legal tribunal, which has not added its corpses to the mortuary selections lying in queer assortment on the red clay hillsides.

"Justice nods in California while the pistols are being drawn."

Hardin, closeted with his lawyers, suspends their eager plotting, to furtively confer in private with the judge.

When the first stars sweep into the blue mountain skies, and a silver moon rises slowly over the pine-clad hills, Joseph Woods summons all his latent fascinations to appease Madame Natalie de Santos. The sturdy Missourian has had his contretemps with Sioux and Pawnee. He has faced prairie fires, stampeded buffalo herds, and met dangers by flood and field. Little personal discussions with horse thieves, some border frays, and even a chance encounter on a narrow trail with a giant grizzly, have tried his nerve. But he braces with a good stiff draught of cognac now. He fears the wily and fascinating Natalie. He is at heart a would-be lady's man. Roughness is foreign to his nature, but he will walk the grim path of duty.

When he thinks of flinching, there rises on his memory the lonely grave where Peyton laid Maxime Valois to rest on the bloody field of Peachtree Creek, with the stars and bars lying lightly on his gallant breast. And he calmly enters the presence of the once famous siren.

There is a mute entreaty in her eyes, as she motions him to a seat.

Joseph toys nervously with the huge diamond, which is a badge "de rigueur" of his rank and grade as a bonanza king.

"I do not wish to agitate or distress you, madame," begins Joe, and his voice is very kind.

"I broke out a little on Hardin; all bluff, you know. Just to show him a card. Now will you trust and let me help you? I mean to bring you out all right. I can't tell you all I know. I am going to fight Hardin on another quarrel. It will be to the death. I can just as well square your little account too, if you will trust me. Will you let me handle your movements, up to the legal issue. After that you are free. I'll give you the word of an honest man, you shall not suffer. Will you trust me?"

Joe's big eyes are looking very appealingly in hers.

Without a word, she places her hand in his. "I am yours until that time, but spare me as much as you can—the old histories, you know," her voice falters. She is a woman, after all.

"Now see here, madame! I swear to you I am the only private man in California who knows your secret, except Hardin, now. I got it in the days long past. No one shall know your identity." He fixes a keen glance on her: "Is there anyone else you wish to spare?" he softly says.

"Yes." She is sobbing now. "It is my child. Don't let her know that awful past."

Joseph's eyes are filled with manly sorrow. He whispers with eagerness:

"Her father is"—

"Philip Hardin," falters the woman, whose stately head is now bowed in her hands.

"I'll protect that child. She shall never want a friend, if you do one thing," Joe falters.

Natalie raises a white face to his.

"What is it?" she huskily whispers.

"Will you swear, in open court, which of these two girls is your own child, if I ask you to?" He is eager and pleading.

She reads his very soul. She hesitates. "And you will protect the innocent girl, against his wrath?" There is all a mother's love in her appeal.

"Both of you. I swear it. You shall not want for money or protection," Joe solemnly says.

"Then, I will!" Natalie firmly answers.

He springs to her side.

"Does Hardin know which girl is his daughter?"

"He does not!" Natalie says slowly.

There is a silence; Joe can hear his own heart beat. Victory at last.

"I have nothing to ask you, except to see no one but myself, Padre Francisco, or my lawyer. If Hardin wants to see you, I'll be present. Now I am going to see him to-night. You will be watched over night and day. I am going to have every precaution taken. I shall be near you always. Rest in safety. I think I can save you any opening up of the old days.

"I will see you early."

Her hands clasp his warmly! She says: "Colonel, send Pere Francois to me. I will tell him all you need to know. He will know what to keep back."

"That's right," cries Joseph, warmly. "I know how to handle Hardin now. You can bank on the padre. He's dead game."

"And your reward?" Natalie whispers, with bowed head.

A wild thought makes the blood surge to Joe's brain. He slowly stammers, "My reward?" His eyes tell him he must make no mistake. A flash of genius.

"You will square my account, madame, if you make no objection to the immediate marriage of your daughter to Dauvray. He's a fine fellow for a Frenchman, and she shall never know this story. She'll have money enough. I'll see to that." Joe's voice is earnest.

Natalie's arms are stretched to him in thanks. "In God's name, be it, my noble friend."

Joe dares not trust himself longer.

He retires, leaving Natalie standing, a splendid statue, with shining, hopeful eyes. Her blessing follows him; sin-shadowed though she be, it reaches the Court of Heaven.

Natalie, in silent sorrow, sees her labor of years brushed away. Her child can never be the heiress of Lagunitas. Fate has brought the gentle Louise Moreau to the very threshold of her old home. It is Providence. Destiny. The all-knowing Pere Francois reveals to her how strangely the life-path of the heiress has been guarded. "My daughter," the priest solemnly says, "be comforted. Right shall prevail. Trust me, trust Colonel Woods. Your child may fall heir yet to a name and to her own inheritance. The ways of Him who pardons are mysterious." He leaves her comforted and yet not daring to break the seal of silence to the lovely claimants.

While Pere Francois confers with Natalie, as the moon sails high in heaven over the fragrant pines, Woods and Peyton exchange a few quiet words over their cigars.

By the repeater which Joe consults it is now a quarter of ten. The two gentlemen stroll over the grassy plaza. By a singular provincial custom each carries a neat navy revolver, where a hand could drop easily on it. Joe also caresses his favorite knife in his overcoat pocket.

In five minutes they are seated with Philip Hardin in his room. There is an air of gloomy readiness in Hardin which shows the unbending nature of the man. He is alone. Woods frankly says: "Judge Hardin, I wish you to know my friend, Mr. Henry Peyton. If anything should happen to me, he knows all my views. He will represent me. As you are alone, I will ask Mr. Peyton to wait for me below."

Henry Peyton bows and passes downstairs, where he is regarded as an archangel of the enemy. For the Hardin headquarters are loyal to their great chief. The man who controls the millions of Lagunitas is surrounded by his loyal body-guard at Mariposa.

When the two men are alone, Woods waits for Hardin to speak. He is silent. There is a gulf between them which never can be bridged. Joseph feels he is no match for Hardin in chicanery, but he has his little surprise in store for the lawyer. It is an armed truce.

"Hardin, I've come over to-night to talk a little politics with you," begins Joseph. His eye is glued on the Judge's, who steadily returns the glance.



CHAPTER XX.

JUDGE HARDIN MEETS HIS MATCH.—A SENATORIAL ELECTION.—IN A MARIPOSA COURT-ROOM.—THE TRUST FULFILLED AT LAGUNITAS.



"You need not trouble yourself about my political aspirations, sir," haughtily remarks Hardin, glaring at the stolid visitor, who calmly continues.

"I don't allow no trouble, Jedge," Woods drawls. "I'll play my cards open. I run this here joint convention, which makes or breaks you. I'm dead-flat plain in my meaning. I can burst up your election as United States Senator, unless you and me can make 'a deal.'"

"Your terms?" sneers Hardin, with a glance at Joe's hand in his pocket, "Toujours pret" is Joseph's motto.

"Oh, my terms! I'll be open, Jedge. I leave this here lawsuit between us, to our lawyers. I will fight you fair in that. You will find me on the square."

"Do you threaten me, sir?" demands Hardin.

"Now, make your own game." Joe's brow darkens. "Hardin, I want you to hear me out; you can take it then, in any shape you want to. Fight or trade." Woods' old Missouri grit is aroused.

"Go on," says Hardin, with a rising gorge.

"You're talking marriage." Joe's sneer maddens Hardin." I tell you now to settle old scores with the lady whom I found in your hands to-night. If you don't, you're not going to the Senate."

Hardin gathers himself. Ah, that hand in the pocket!

"Don't make a mistake, Jedge," coldly interjects Woods. "Drop that gun. We're no bravos."

"I positively decline to have any bargain with you on my private matters. After you leave this room, you can look out for yourself, if you cross my path," hisses the Judge, his face pale and ghastly.

"Now, Jedge," Joe snaps out, "watch your own scalp. Hardin, I'll not dodge you. You are going on the wrong road. We split company here. But there's room enough in California for you and me. As for any 'shooting talk,' it's all bosh. You will get in a hot corner, unless you hear me out. I tell you now, to acknowledge your child by that woman. Save your election; save yourself, old man.

"She'll go off to France, but you've got to give her child a square name and a set-out."

"Never!" yells Hardin, forgetting himself, as with blind rage he points to the door.

"All right," says Joseph, coolly. "You'll never be senator till you send for me. You have fair warning. My cards are face-up on the table." Hardin, speechless with rage, sees him disappear.

Peyton and Joe Woods walk over the silent plaza, with the twinkling stars sweeping overhead. They exchange but few words. They seek the rest of their pillows. Joe's prayers consist of reloading his revolvers.

The last watcher in Mariposa is Hardin, the hate of hell in his heart. A glass of neat brandy is tossed off. He throws himself heavily on the bed. The world is a torment to him now. "On to Sacramento" is his last thought. Money, in hoards and heaps, will drown this rich booby's vain interference. For, legislatures sell senatorial honors in California openly like cabbage in a huckster's wagon, only at higher prices.

Before the gray squirrels are leaping on the madronas and nutty oaks next dawn of day, Hardin is miles away towards the State capital. His legal forces remain. He takes one trusty agent, to distribute his golden arguments.

When Woods leisurely finishes his breakfast he strolls under the pines with Pere Francois. There are also two youthful couples. They are reading lessons, not of law, but of love, in each other's shining eyes as they wander in the lonely forest paths.

Seated by a dashing mountain brook which runs past the town, Pere Francois gravely informs Joe that Natalie de Santos has given him the dark history of her chequered life. Though the seal of the confessional protects it, he has her consent to supply Woods and Judge Davis with certain facts. Her sworn statements will verify these if needed.

After a long interview with Madame de Santos, Colonel Joseph follows Hardin to Sacramento. He has one or two resolute friends with him as a guard against the coarse Western expedient of assassination. He knows Hardin's deft touches of old.

As the stage rattles around dizzy heights, below massy cliffs, swinging under the forest arches, the Missouri champion reasons out that Hardin's hands are tied personally as regards a bloody public quarrel, by the coming senatorial fight. To pluck the honors of the Senate at last from a divided State, is a testimony to the lawyer's great abilities. Joe thinks, with a sigh of regret, that some mere animated money-bag may sit under the white dome, and misrepresent the sovereign State of California. "Well, if Hardin won't bend, he's got to break." The miner puffs his cigar in search of wisdom.

Single-minded and unswerving, Woods goes directly to his splendid rooms at the "Golden Eagle," on reaching Sacramento.

The capital city of the State is crowded with legislators and attaches. The lobby banditti, free lances, and camp followers of the annual raid upon the pockets of the people are on guard. While his meal is being served in his parlor, he indites a note to Hardin's political Mark Antony. It will rest with him to crown a triumph or deliver his unheard oration over the body of a politically dead Caesar. The billet reads:

"I want you instantly, on a matter deciding Hardin's election. You can show him this."

In half an hour, over burgundy and the ever-flowing champagne, Woods, feeling his visitor in good humor, fires his first gun. He begins with half-shut eyes, in a genial tone:

"Harris, I have sent for you to tell you Hardin and me have locked horns over some property. Now I won't vote for him, but I'll hold off my dogs. I won't work against him if he signs a sealed paper I'm goin' to give you. If he don't, I'll open out, and tell an old yarn to our secret nominating caucus. I am solidly responsible for the oration. He will be laid out. It rests only with his friends then, to spread this scandal. He has time to square this. It does not hang on party interests. I am a man of my word, you know. Now, I leave it to you to consider if he has any right to ask his friends to back him in certain defeat. See him quick. If he tells you to hear the story from me, I will tell you all. If he flies the track, I am silent until the caucus. THEN, I will speak, if I'm alive. If I am dead, my pard will speak for me. My death would seal his utter ruin. I can stand the consequences. He has got to come up to the captain's office and settle." The astounded Harris gloomily muses while Woods quietly inscribes a few lines on a sheet of paper. He seals the envelop, and hands it to Senator Harris.

"I won't leave this camp, Harris, till I get your answer," calmly remarks Joseph. He refuses to waste more words in explanation. "See Hardin," is his only phrase. "It's open war then between him and me."

Harris, with a very grave face, enters the private rooms of Judge Hardin at the Orleans Hotel.

Hardin listens, with scowling brow as black as night. He tears open the envelop! His faithful henchman wonders what can bring night's blackness to Judge Hardin's face.

The lines are a careful acknowledgment of the paternity of the girl child of "Natalie de Santos," born at San Francisco and now about eighteen years of age. It closes with a statement of her right to inherit as a lawful heiress from him.

"I will shoot that dog on sight, if he carries out this threat," deliberately says Hardin.

"Judge," coldly replies his lieutenant, "does this note refer to public affairs, or to party interests?"

"Private matters!" replies Hardin, his eyes flashing.

"Then, let me say, I will keep silent in this matter. I shall ask you to name some other man to handle your candidacy before the Legislature. Joe Woods is honest, and absolutely of iron nerve. You can send for any of your other friends, and choose a man to take my place. I won't fight Joe. Woods never lied in his life.

"If you will state that you have adjusted this difference with him, I am at your service. Let me know your decision soon. He waits for me. In all else, I am yours, as a friend, but I will not embroil the State now for a mere private feud. Send for me, Judge, when you have decided."

In the long and heated conferences of the night, before the sun again pours its shimmering golden waves on the parched plains of Sacramento, Hardin finds no one who will face the mysterious situation.

Harris finds the patient Joe playing seven-up with a couple of friends, and his pistols on the table.

"All right, Harris; let him think it over." Joe nods, and continues his game.

Calmly expectant, when Harris sends his name up next morning, Joe Woods is in very good humor. The gathering forces are anxious for the hour when a solemn secret party caucus shall name the man to be officially balloted in as Senator of the United States for six years. The term is not to begin for three months, but great corporations, the banks, with their heaped millions, and all the mighty high-priests of the dollar-god, need that sense of security which Hardin's ability will give to their different schemes. Their plans can be safely laid out then.

In simple straightforwardness, Harris hands Woods a sealed envelop, without a word.

In the vigils of one awful night, Philip Hardin knows that he must fence off the maddened woman who seems to have a mysterious hold upon his destiny at this crisis. What force impels her?

Hardin has enjoined Harris to have Woods repeat his pledge of "non-opposition."

"Did you see the Jedge sign this here paper?" says Woods dryly, as he inspects the signature. His face is solemn.

"I did," Harris answers.

"Then just write your name here as witness," Joseph briskly says, handing him a pen, and covering the few lines of the document, leaving only Philip Hardin's well-known signature visible.

Harris hesitates. Joe's eyes are blazing; no foolery now! Harris quietly signs. The name of Joseph Woods is added, at once, with the date.

"Harris," says Joseph, "you're a man of honor. I pledge you now I will not make public the nature of this document. Hardin can grab for the Senate now, if you boys can elect him. I'll not fight him."

Harris retires in silence. The day is saved. Though the election is within three days, Joseph Woods finds private business so pressing that his seat is vacant, when Philip Hardin is declared Senator-elect. The pledge has been kept. Not a rumor of the secret incident reaches the public. The cautious Joseph is grateful for not being obliged to shorten Hardin's life.

Fly as fast as Hardin may to Mariposa, Joe Woods is there before him. The telegraph bears to every hamlet of the Golden State the news of the senatorial choice.

Philip Hardin, seated on the porch of the old mansion at Lagunitas, reads the eulogies crowding the columns of fifty journals.

From San Diego to Siskiyou one general voice hails the new-made member of that august body, who are now so rapidly giving America "Roman liberties."

The friend of Mammon, nurtured in conspiracy, skilled in deceit, Hardin, the hidden Mokanna, grins behind his silver veil.

His deep-laid plans seem all safe now. The local meshes of his golden net hold the District Judge firmly. It will be easy to postpone, to weary out, to harass this strange faction. He has stores of coin ready. They are the heaped-up reserves of his "senatorial ammunition." And yet Joe Woods, that burly meddling fool. To placate Natalie! To induce her to leave at once for Paris! How shall this be done? Ha! The marriage is her dream in life! He is elected now. He fears not her Southern rival. The ambitious political lady aspirant! He can explain to her now in private, To give Natalie an acknowledgment of a private marriage will content her. Then his bought Judge can quietly grant a separation for desertion, after Natalie has returned to France. She will care nothing for the squabble over the acres of Lagunitas, if well paid. As for the priest, he may swear as strongly as he likes. The girl will surely be declared illegitimate. He has destroyed all the papers. Valois' will is never to see the light. If deception has been practiced he cares not. Senatorial privilege raises him too high for the voice of slander.

He has the golden heart of these hills now to himself.

Yes, he will fool the priest and divide his enemies. The money for Natalie will be deposited in Paris banks. The principal to be paid her in one year, on condition of never again coming to the United States. Long before that time he will be legally free and remarried. Hardin rubs his hands in glee. Neither reporter nor the public will ever see the divorce proceedings. That is easily handled in Mariposa.

In his local legal experience, he has many times seen wilder schemes succeed. Spanish grants have been shifted leagues to suit the occasion. Boundaries are removed bodily. Witnesses are manufactured under golden pressure. The eyes of Justice are blinded with opaque weights of the yellow treasure.

But he must work rapidly. It is now only a short week to the trial. The court-house and records are regularly watched. Not a move indicates any prying into the matter beyond the mere identity of the heiress. But who has set up the other claimant?

It would be madness for Natalie to raise this quarrel! Some schemers have imposed a strange girl on the other party. Hardin recalls Natalie's wild astonishment at the apparition of another "Isabel Valois."

And the second girl did not even know who Natalie was. What devil's work is this?

Hardin decides to "burn his ships." Alone in the home of the Peraltas, he prepares for a campaign "a l'outrance." That crafty priest might know too much. The evening before his departure he burns up every paper at the ranch which would cause any remark, even in case of his death. Next morning, as he rides out of Lagunitas, he gazes on the fair domain. The last thing he sees is the chapel cross. A chill suddenly strikes him. He gallops on. Rapidly journeying to Mariposa, he installs himself in the headquarters of his friends. His ablest counsel has provided the bought Judge, with full secret instructions to meet every contingency.

Sober and serious in final judgment, Philip Hardin quickly summons a discreet friend. He requests a last personal interview with Natalie de Santos. The ambassador is received by good-humored Joe Woods. He declines an interview, by the lady's orders, unless its object is stated.

Hardin requests that some friend other than the Missouri miner, may be named to represent Natalie.

His eyes gleam when the selection is made of Pere Francois. Just what he would wish.

It lacks now but three days of the final hearing. An hour after the message, Hardin and the priest are seated, in quiet commune. There are no papers. There is no time lost, none to lose. No witnesses, no interlopers.

Hardin opens his proposals. The priest seems tractable. "I do not wish to refer to any present legal matters. I speak only of the past. I will refer only to the future of 'Madame de Santos.' You may say to her that if she will grant me a brief interview, I feel I can make her a proposition she will accept, as very advantageous. In justice to her, I cannot communicate its details, even to you. But if she wishes to advise with you, I have no objection to giving you the guarantees of my provision for her future. You shall know as much of our whole arrangement as she wishes you to. She can have you or other friends, in an adjoining room. You can be called in to witness the papers, and examine the details."

The grave priest returns in half an hour. Hardin ponders uneasily. The priest plays an unimpassioned part. "Madame de Santos will receive Judge Hardin on his terms, with the condition, that if there is any exciting difference, Judge Hardin will retire at once, and not renew his proposals." Hardin accepts. Now for work.

Side by side, the new-made senator and the old priest walk across the plaza. Success smiles on Hardin.

Local quid-nuncs mutter "Compromise," as they seek the spiritual consolation of the Magnolia Saloon and Palace Varieties. Is there to be no pistol practice after all?

Alas, these degenerate days! The camp has lost its glory. Betting has been two to one that Colonel Joe Woods riddles the Judge before the trial is over.

Now these bets will be off. A fraud on the innocent public. The decadence of Mariposa.

Yet, Hardin is not easy. In the first struggle of his life with a priest, Hardin feels himself no match for his passionless antagonist. The waxen mask of the Church hides the inner soul of the man.

Only when Pere Francois turns his searching gaze on the Judge, parrying every move, does the lawyer feel how the immobility of the clergyman is proof against his wiles and professional ambushes.

Pere Francois conducts Hardin into the room whence Natalie dismissed him, in her roused but sadly wounded spirit. She is there, waiting. Her face is marble in pallor.

With a grave bow, the old ecclesiastic retires to an adjoining room and leaves them alone. There is a writing table.

"Madame, to spare you discussion," Hardin remarks seriously, "I will write on two sheets of paper what I ask and what I offer. You may confer with your adviser. I will retire. You can add to either anything you propose. We can then, at once, observe if we can approach each other."

Natalie's stately head bows assent in silence. In five minutes Hardin hands her the two sheets.

Natalie's face puzzles him. Calm and unmoved, she looks him quietly in the eyes, as if in a mute farewell. She has simply uttered monosyllables, in answer to his few explanations.

Hardin walks up and down upon the veranda, while Natalie, the priest, and Colonel Joe scan the two sheets. His heart beats quickly while the trio read his proposals.

They are simple enough. What he gets and what he gives. Madame de Santos is to absent herself from the trial. She is to leave Isabel Valois, her charge, with the priest. She is to be silent as to the entire past.

Hardin's lawyers are to stipulate, in case of Isabel Valois being defeated in any of her rights, she shall be free to receive a fund equal to that settled on the absent child of Natalie. Her freedom comes with her majority in any case.

Judge Hardin offers, on the other hand:

To give a written recognition of the private marriage, and to fully legalize the absent Irene.

To admit her to his succession, and to surrender all control to the mother.

On condition of Natalie de Santos ceasing all marital claims and disappearing at once, she is to receive five hundred thousand dollars, in bankers' drafts to her order in Paris, six months after the legal separation.

Hardin's tread re-echoes on the porch. His mind is busied. Is he to have a closing career of unsullied honor in the Senate? He is yet in a firm, if frosty age. A dignified halo will surround his second marriage. It is better thus. Peace and silence at any cost. And Lagunitas' millions to come. The mine—his dear-bought treasure. It is coming, Philip Hardin. Peace and rest? it will be peace and silence. He starts! The black-robed priest is at the door. Father Francois has now resumed his soutane.

"Will you kindly enter?" he says.

Hardin, with unmoved face, seats himself opposite Natalie. Pere Francois remains.

"I will accept your terms, Judge Hardin," she steadily says, "with the addition that the advice of Judge Davis be at my service regarding the papers, and that I leave to-morrow for San Francisco.

"You are to send an agent, also. The money to be transferred by telegraph, payable absolutely to me at Paris, by my bankers, at the appointed time. Your agent may accompany me to the frontier of the State. I will leave as soon as the bankers acknowledge the transfer.

"In case of any failure on your part, the obligation to keep silent ceases. I retain the marriage papers."

Hardin bows his head. The priest is silent. In a few moments, the senator-elect says:

"I agree to all." His senatorial debut pictures itself in his mind.

Madame de Santos rises, "I authorize Pere Francois to remain with you, on my behalf. Let the papers be at once prepared. I am ready to leave to-morrow morning. I only insist the two papers which would affect my child, be duplicated, and both witnessed by our lawyers."

Hardin bows assent. Natalie de Santos walks toward the door of her rooms. Her last words fall on his ear: "Pere Francois will represent me in all." She is going. Hardin springs to the door: "And I shall see you again?" His voice quivers slightly. Old days throng back to his memory. "Is it for ever?" His iron heart softens a moment.

"I pray God, never! Philip Hardin, you are dead to me. The past is dead. I can only think of you with your cruel grasp on my throat!" She is gone.

As the door closes, Hardin buries his face in his hands. Thoughts of other days are rending his heart-strings.

Before three hours, the papers are all executed. The morning stage takes Natalie de Santos, with the priest, and guarded by Armand Valois, away from the scene of the coming legal battle.

In the early gray of the dawn, Philip Hardin only catches a glimpse of a muffled form in a coach. He will see the mother of his child no more. With a wild dash, the stage sweeps away. It is all over.

His agent, in a special conveyance, is already on the road. He has orders to telegraph the completion of the transfer. He is to verify the departure for New York, of the ex-queen of the El Dorado.

On the day of the hearing, the court-house is crowded. Pere Francois and Armand Valois have not yet returned. Both sides have received, by telegraph, the news of the completion of the work. By stipulation, the newly-acknowledged marriage is not to be made public.

Hardin, pale and thoughtful, enters the court with his supporters. There is but one young lady present. With her, Peyton, Judge Davis, and Joseph Woods are seated. Raoul Dauvray seats himself quietly between the two parties.

When the case is reached, there is the repression of a deathly silence. Hardin, by the advice of his lawyers, will stand strictly on the defensive. He has decided to acknowledge his entire readiness to close his guardianship. He will leave the heirship to be finally adjusted by the Court. The Court is under his thumb.

His senatorial duties call for this relief. It will take public attention from the unpleasant matter. Rid of the burden of the ranch, still the "bonanza of Lagunitas" will be his, as always.

The great lawyer he relies on states plausibly this entire willingness to such a relief, and requests the Court to appoint a successor to the distinguished trustee. Hardin feels that he has now covered his past with a solid barrier. Safe at last. No living man can roll away the huge rock from the "tomb of the dead past." It would need a voice from the grave. He can defy the whole world. No thought of his dead friend haunts him.

When the advocate ceases speaking, while the Judge ponders over the disputed heirship, and the contest as to the legitimacy of Maxime Valois' child, when clearly identified, Judge Davis rises quietly to address the Court. Philip Hardin feels a slight chill icing down his veins, as he notes the gravity of the Eastern lawyer's manner. Is there a masked battery?

"Your Honor," begins Davis, "we oppose any action tending to discharge or relieve the present guardian of Isabel Valois.

"A most important discovery of new matters in the affairs of this estate, makes it my duty to lay some startling facts before your Honor."

There is a pause. Hardin's heart flutters madly. He sees a stony look gather on Joe Woods' face. There is a peculiar grimness also in the visage of the watchful Peyton. Everyone in the room is on the alert. Crowding to the front, Hardin is elbowed by a man who seats himself in a chair reserved by Judge Davis.

His eyes are blinded for a moment. Great Heavens! It is his old law-clerk. The wily and once hilarious Jaggers.

He is here for some purpose. That devil Woods' work.

Hardin's hand clutches a revolver in his pocket. He glares uneasily at Joe Woods, at Peyton, at the ex-clerk. He breathlessly waits for the solemn voice of Davis:

"We propose, your Honor, to introduce evidence that the late Maxime Valois left a will. We propose to prove that the estate has been maladministered. We will prove to your Honor that a gigantic fraud has been perpetrated during the minority of the child of Colonel Valois. The most valuable element of the estate, the Lagunitas mine, has been fraudulently enjoyed by the administrator."

Hardin springs to his feet. He is forced into his chair by his counsel. There is the paleness of death on his face, but murder lurks in his heart. Away with patience now. A hundred eyes are gazing in his direction. The Judge is anchored, in amazement, on the bench. Woods and Peyton are facing Hardin, with steady defiance.

As he struggles to rise, he feels his blood boiling like molten iron.

He has been trapped by this devil, Woods. Davis resumes: "I shall show your Honor, by the man who held Colonel Valois in his arms on the battlefield as he lay dying, that a will was duly forwarded to the guardian and administrator, who concealed it. I will also prove, your Honor, that Colonel Valois repeated that will in a document taken from his dead body, in which he acknowledged his marriage, and the legitimacy of his true child. I will file these papers, and prove them by testimony of the gallant officer who buried him, and who succeeded to his regiment."

A deep growl from Hardin is heard. He knows now who Peyton is. What avenging fiends are on his track? But the mine, the mine is safe. Always the mine, The deeds will hold. Davis resumes, his voice ringing cold and clear:

"I shall also prove by documents, concealed by the administrator, that Maxime Valois never parted with the title to the Lagunitas mine; that the millions have been stolen, which it has yielded. I will bring in the evidence of the clerk who received these last letters from the absent owner in the field, that they are genuine. They state his utter inability to sell the mine, as the whole property belonged to his wife."

There is a blood-red film before Hardin's eyes now. Prudence flies after patience. It is his Waterloo. All is lost, even honor.

"I venture to remind your Honor, that even if the daughter, whom I produce here, is proved illegitimate, that she takes the whole property, including the mine, as the legal heir of her mother, under the laws of California." A murmur is suppressed by the clerk's hammer.

There is an awful silence as Judge Davis adds: "I will further produce before your Honor, Armand Valois, the only other heir of the decedent, to whom the succession would fall by law. He is named in the will I will establish, made twelve hours before the writer was killed at the battle of Peachtree Creek.

"I am aware," Judge Davis concludes, "that some one has forged the titles to the Lagunitas mine. I will prove the forgery to have been executed in the interest of Philip Hardin, the administrator, whom I now formally ask you to remove pending this trial, as a man false to his trust. He has robbed the orphan daughter of his friend. He deceived the man who laid his life down for the cause of the South, while he plotted in the safe security of distant California homes. Colonel Valois was robbed by his trusted friend."

A mighty shudder shakes the crowd. Men gaze at each other, wildly. The blinking Judge is dazed on the bench he pollutes. Before any one can draw a breath in relief, Hardin, bending himself below the restraining arms, springs to his feet and levels a pistol full at Joe Woods' breast.

"You hound!" he yells. His arm is struck up; Raoul Dauvray has edged every moment nearer the disgraced millionaire. The explosion of the heavy pistol deafens those near. When the smoke floats away, a gaping wound tells where its ball crashed through Hardin's brain. Slain by his own hand. Dead and disgraced. The senatorial laurels never touch his brow!

In five minutes the court is cleared. An adjournment to the next day is forced by the sudden tragedy. The wild mob are thronging the plaza.

Silent in death lies the man who realized at last how the awful voice of the dead Confederate called down the vengeance of God on the despoiler of the orphan.

The telegraph, lightning-winged, bears the news far and wide. By the evening Pere Francois and Armand Valois return. In a few hours Natalie de Santos turns backward. The swift wheels speeding down the Truckee are slower than the electric spark bearing to the ex-queen of the El Dorado, the wife of a day, the news of her legal widowhood.

Henry Peyton brings back the traveller, whose presence is now absolutely needed.

A lonely grave on the red hillside claims the last remains of the dark Chief of the Golden Circle. Few stand by its yawning mouth, to see the last of the man whose name has been just hailed everywhere with wild enthusiasm.

Unloved, unhonored, unregretted, unshriven, with all his imperfections on his head, he waits the last trump. Alone in death, as in life.

In the brief and formal verification of all these facts, the Court finds an opportunity to at once establish the identity of the heiress of Lagunitas. For, there is no contest now.

In formal devotion to the profession, Hardin's lawyer represents the estate of the dark schemer.

The legal tangles yield to final proofs.

There is a family party at Lagunitas once more. Judge Davis and Peyton guard the interests of the girl who has only lost the millions of Lagunitas to inherit a fortune from the father who scorned to even gaze upon her face. Joseph Woods joyfully guides the beautiful heiress of the domain, who kneels besides the grave of Dolores Peralta, her unknown mother, with her lover by her side. The last of the Valois stand there, hand in hand. She is Louise Moreau no more.

Pere Francois is again in his old home by the little chapel, where twenty years ago he raised his voice in the daily supplication for God's sinful children.

While Raoul Dauvray and Armand ride in voyages of discovery over the great domain, the two heiresses are happy with each other. There is no question between them. They are innocent of each other's sorrows. They now know much of the shadowy past with its chequered romance. The transfer of all the mine and its profits to the young girl, who finds the domain in the hills a fairyland, is accomplished.

Judge Davis hies himself away to the splendid excitement of his Eastern metropolitan practise. His "honorarium" causes him to have an added and tender feeling for the all-conquering Joe Woods. Henry Peyton is charged with the general supervision of the Lagunitas estate. He is aided by a mine superintendent selected by that wary old Argonaut, Joe.

Natalie de Santos leaves the refuge of lovely Lagunitas in a few weeks. There is a shadow resting on her heart which will never be lifted. In vain, beside the old chapel, seated under the giant rose-vines, Pere Francois urges her to witness the marriage of her daughter. Under the care of Joseph Woods, she leaves for San Francisco. Her daughter, who is soon to take a rightful name, learns from Pere Francois the agreed-on reasons of her absence. Natalie will not make a dark background to the happiness to come. Silence and expiation await her beyond the surges of the Atlantic.

Joseph Woods and Pere Francois have buried all awkward references to past history. Irene Dauvray will never know the story of the lovely "Queen of the El Dorado."

There are no joy bells at Lagunitas on the day when the old priest unites Armand and Isabel Valois in marriage. The same solemn consecration gives gallant Raoul Dauvray, the woman he adores. It is a sacrament of future promise. Peyton and Joe Woods are the men who stand in place of the fathers of these two dark-eyed brides. It is a solemn and tender righting of the old wrongs. A funeral of the past—a birth of a brighter day, for all.

The load of care and strife has been taken from the shoulders of the three elders, who gravely watch the four glowing and enraptured lovers.

In a few weeks, Raoul Dauvray and his bride leave for San Francisco. Fittingly they choose France for their home. In San Francisco, Joseph Woods leads the young bride through the silent halls of the old house on the hill. The Missourian gravely bids the young wife remember that it was here her feet wandered over the now neglected paths.

Joseph Woods convoys the departing voyagers to the border of the State. The ample fortune secured to them, will engage his occasional leisure in advice as to its local management.

Natalie de Santos goes forth with them. Her home in Paris awaits her. The Golden State knows her no more. Her feet will never wander back to the shores where her stormy youth was passed.

A lover's pilgrimage to beloved Paris and the old castle by the blue waters of Lake Geneva claims the Lord and Lady of Lagunitas. For, they will return to dwell in the mountains of Mariposa. Before they cross the broad Atlantic, they have a sacred duty to perform. It is to visit the grave of the soldier of the Lost Cause and lay their wreaths upon the turf which covers his gallant breast.

The old padre sits on the porch of his house at Lagunitas. He waits only for the last solemn act. Henry Peyton is to follow the travellers East, and remove the soldier of the gray to the little chapel grounds of Lagunitas.

When Padre Francisco has seen the master come home, and raised his weakening voice in requiem over the friend of his youth, he will seek once more his dear Paris, and find again his cloistered home near Notre Dame.

He has, as a memorial of mother and daughter, a deed of the old home of Philip Hardin. It is given to the Church for a hospital. It is well so. None of the living ever wish to pass again its shadowed portals.

While waiting the time for their departure, the priest and Henry Peyton watch the splendid beauties of Lagunitas, in peaceful brotherhood. The man of war and the servant of peace are drawn towards each other strangely.

The Virginian often gazes on the sword of Maxime Valois, hanging now over the hearthplace he left in his devotion to the Lost Cause. He thanks God that the children of the old blood are in the enjoyment of their birthright.

Padre Francisco, telling his beads, or whiling an hour away with his breviary, begins to nod easily as the lovely summer days deepen in splendor. He is an old man now, yet his heart is touched with the knowledge of God's infinite mercy as he looks over the low wall to where the roses bloom around: the grave of Dolores Valois.

He hopes to live yet to know, that gallant father and patient mother will live over again in the happy faces of the children of their orphaned child.

In the United States of America, at this particular juncture, no happier man than Colonel and State Senator Joseph Woods can be found. His mines are unfailing in their yield; his bachelor bungalow, in its splendor, will extinguish certain ambitious rivals, and he is freed from the nightmare of investigating the tangled web of the mysterious struggle for the millions of Lagunitas. He is confirmed in his resolve to remain a bachelor.

"I have two home camps now, one in Paris and one in California, where I am a sort of a brevet father. I won't be lonely," Joe merrily says.

Joseph's cheery path in life is illuminated by his gorgeous diamonds, and roped in with his massive watch-chains. More precious than the gold and gems is the rough and ready manhood of the old Argonaut. He seriously thinks of eschewing the carrying of weapons, and abandoning social adventures, becoming staid and serene like Father Francois.

He often consoles himself in his loneliness by the thought that Henry Peyton is also a man without family. "I will capture Peyton when he gets the young people in good shape, and they are tired of Paris style," Joe muses. "He's a man and a brother, and we will spend our old days in peace together."

One haunting, sad regret touches Colonel Joe's heart. He learns of the intention of Natalie to spend her days in retirement and in helping others.

Thinking of her splendid beauty, her daring struggle for her friendless child's rights, and all that is good of the only woman he ever could have desperately loved, he guards her secret in his breast. He dare not confess to his own heart that if there had been an honorable way, he would fain have laid his fortune at the feet of the peerless "Queen of the El Dorado."

Francois Ribaut, walking the deck of the steamer, gazes on the great white stars above him. The old man is peaceful, and calmly thankful. The night breezes moan over the lonely Atlantic! As the steamer bravely dashes the spray aside, his heart bounds with a new happiness. Every hour brings the beloved France nearer to him. Looking back at the life and land he leaves behind him, the old priest marvels at the utter uselessness of Philip Hardin's life. Apples of Sodom were all his treasures. His wasted gifts, his dark schemes, his sly plans, all gone for naught. Blindly driven along in the darkness of evil, his own hand pulled down his palace of sin on his head. And even "French Charlie" was avenged by the murderer's self-executed sentence. "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord; I will repay." The innocent and helpless have wandered past each dark pitfall dug by the wily Hardin, and enjoy their own. Pere Francois, with his eyes cast backward on his own life path, feels that he has not fought the good fight in vain. His gentle heart throbs in sympathy, filled with an infinite compassion for the lonely Natalie de Santos. Sinned against and sinning. A free lance, with only her love for her child to hallow and redeem her. Her own plans, founded in guile, have all miscarried. Blood stains the gold bestowed on her by Philip Hardin's death. Her life has been a stormy sea. Yet, to her innocent child, a name and fortune have been given by the hand of Providence. In turning away her face from the vain and glittering world she has adorned, the chase and plaything of men, one pure white flower will bloom from the red ashes of her dead life. The unshaken affection of the child for whom she struggled, who can always, in ignorance of the dark past, lift happy eyes to hers and call her in love, by the holy name of mother. With bowed head and thankful heart, Padre Francisco's thoughts linger around beautiful Lagunitas. Its groves and forest arches, its mirrored lake, its smiling beauties and fruitful fields, return to him. The old priest murmurs: "God made Lagunitas; but man made California what it has been."

A land of wild adventure, of unrighted wrongs. A land of sad histories, of many shattered hopes. Fierce waves of adventurers swept away the simple early folk. Lawless license, flaunting vice, and social disorganization made its early life as a State, one mad chaos.

The Indians have perished, rudely despoiled. The old Dons have faded into the gray mists of a dead past. The early Argonauts have lived out the fierce fever of their wild lives. To the old individual freebooters, a new order of great corporate monopolies and gigantic rough-hewn millionaires succeeds. There is always some hand on the people's throat in California. Yet the star of hope glitters.

Slowly, through all the foamy restless waves of transient adventurers the work of the homebuilders is showing the dry land decked with the olive branches of peace.

The native sons and daughters of the Golden West, bright, strong, self-reliant and full of promise, are the glittering-eyed young guardians of the Golden Gate. Born of the soil, with life's battle to fight on their native hills, may they build around the slopes of the Pacific, a State great in its hearths and homes. The future shines out. The gloomy past recedes. The sunlight of freedom sparkles on the dreamy lake of Lagunitas!

THE END