In spite of his proud demands, reinforced by an attempted show of authority, the calm Father is obdurate in the refusal. The calm Father knows that he is right. Rivera, quivering with anger at being thwarted in his purpose, even attempts to use force, but Junipero, with a commanding dignity, assures him that, were he ten times the Commandante, he would not fear him nor yield to him," eloquently threatening him with the curse of the Church should he touch the girl. Rivera cringes under these lashing words, then, furious and defeated, storms out of the patio. The air is tense with righteous indignation, and then the situation is relieved in a most pleasing manner. A tiny Indian girl, perhaps four years old, clad in a little buckskin dress, fringed and beaded, races upon the stage with a bunch of flowers for "Padrecito." He is lost in thought, and does not see her. She tugs vigorously at his robe, for none but the evildoer has need to fear him. His anger is immediately gone, as he lovingly clasps the "dear little daughter of the Gentiles" in his arms, asks her if she loves God, and talks very tenderly to her.

Capatejeno, chief of the San Carlos Indians, clad in a handsome buckskin suit, proudly brings his people to show the visiting padres specimens of the handiwork they have been taught by Father Junipero. They exhibit woven baskets, tile, carved altar pieces, bridle bits, horseshoes, chairs, lamps, dressed buckskin, and embroidery work, which speak eloquently of the miracles that have been wrought in the fifteen years the missionaries have been among them. Father Serra warmly commends the chief, lovingly calling him "brother," and assuring him that his ability to hold his people so well in hand is because he himself is such a good Christian.

The mission bells call the Indians and the visitors to their festivities, and through the mission arches they come in merry groups. The wealth of color, the various costumes, historically correct for the different classes, creates a most striking scene, for nearly two hundred Spaniards, soldiers, padres, Indians, and muleteers are assembled. With keen enjoyment and hearty applause they watch the Indian Sun Dance, the participants in which are in their old-time savage costume of only the fox skins hung from their shoulders. The little kettle drums of sheepskin furnish a weird accompaniment. An Indian recites the Sun Prayer. A charming Spanish duet, "La Playeria," is rendered. Four Spanish youths and maidens give the sombrero dance, and a señorita,

in yellow satin and black lace, executes a most graceful dance with castanets. At length, the games and dancing over, the crowd disperses and twilight gathers. In the distance the evening hymn can be heard, sung by many voices. Father Junipero wanders alone in the patio, fondly listening to this well-beloved sound. As it draws to a close, he kneels at the cross, praying yearningly that "all the wild Gentiles of the hills and plains may come to the cross of Christ."

The curtain closes, leaving him praying alone in the deepening twilight, a solitary, symbolic figure.

Though his death occurred soon after the events here portrayed, the name of Father Junipero is to-day the best known and loved of any in California.

This act is a masterpiece in its variety of types of people and emotions forcefully depicted, showing as it does almost every phase of the life of those glorious days. It brings the work and spirit of the self-denying padres very near to us, and helps us to realize what a priceless heritage to our present commonwealth are the missions. How deep and vast the influence effected by the Holy Cross of the Missions. Mr. Horning's impersonation of the Franciscan Fathers is masterly and satisfying in every way. He mirrors well the voice, the exaltation and spiritual purpose, the dignity of bearing, the benign smile ever ready for his beloved children, of the great missionary Friar.

In the third act we have an entire change, for forty years have passed, and we are brought nearly to modern times. The mission glory is gone. The scene is the patio of San Juan Capistrano, strewn with straw, and used for a stable by the Americanos who have bought it. The once beautiful edifice is in decay, and the Indians, to whom it rightfully belongs, have been driven away into the hills. A señora, who has known the missions in the days of their prosperity, visits the sacred ground. She tells of the freedom of Mexico from Spain, and the commercialism which quickly followed-the rich Indian lands seized by the government and sold to eager Americanos. She relates to the aged Spanish guard, who was baptized by Father Junipero, how the other mission lands have been sold, resulting in desolation for their once happy occupants. After a touching farewell to the dear old mission with its wrecked hopes, the señora takes her leave.

Out of the gathering darkness a tall, glowing cross appears in one of the mission arches, and the curtain closes.

THE OTHER LOVE.

BY ELEANOR THÉRÈSE DOWNING.

LOVE came to me with gold-dust on his hair,
In white and purple raiment meetly drest,
With lip vermeil and laughter debonnair,

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And blossoms in his hands and on his breast.
Love came to me and claimed me for his bride;
'Thou art my king," I spake, "for thou art Love."
Love raised his two white arms and flung them wide,
And caught me in the ivory flash thereof.

"And who art thou who standest there beside,
With ashen cloak and features coverèd,
Say, who art thou, and who art thou," I cried,
"With dust and thorns upon thy hooded head?"
"I am the Other Love that calls to thee;

Unloose this love and come away with me."

Love took my rosy hands between his own,

I twined my supple fingers round his wrist
Like the curled petals of a rose down-blown
On fountain-rim of marble silver-kist.

Love held my hands-and lo! where warmth had leapt,
And where my palms had clung and found it sweet,
Like twilight wind a sudden coldness crept

Between the pulsing of each blue-veined beat.

"And what is this that like a steel-bright blade,

Cuts through my heart and chills the coursing blood, Ah! what is this, and what is this," I said, "Thou sad intruder in the cowlèd hood?"

"The lethargy Remorse that shall entwine

And slay love's passion if thou be not mine."

Love bowed him down; I looked within his eyes,
And lost and steeped my being in their light;

In silence spake we, as when deep replies

To star-gemmed deep, or height to dawn-flushed height; Love's glance met mine, and seven-circled hell,

Heaven and earth, and life and death waved dim

Within that look-when lo! a shadow fell

Between mine eyes and the dear eyes of him.

"And what is this that drops like curtained cloud, So that each other's eyes we may not find?

Grim guest what may this be," I mourned aloud,

"That to my lover's soul my soul grows blind?"

This is the night shall fold thee utterly

If thou heed not, nor come away with me."

Love kissed me, and the flower of my lips
To the red flame of his was rendered up,
As when the passionate gold sunbeam sips

The honied dew-drop from the primrose-cup;
Love kissed me, and the sweetness of his mouth
Grew sudden rife with fever-flame and gall,
Scorching my lips as winds from desert-south
Before whose wilting feet red blossoms fall.

And why is this my lover's lips are fraught With searing poison I did not guess? Thou fearsome shape, so tell me," I besought, "Whence springs the well of so much bitterness?" "Yea, even from the draught of passion's wine Thy lips are tasting, for those lips are mine."

Love bade me close mine eyes and shut mine ears.
Thou art no bride," he spake, "for such as he,
Whose speech is silence, and whose food is tears,
Whose sweetest service is captivity.

Come thou with me where we shall roam at will
In fountained courts of gold he dreams not of,
Girt in by rose-starred grove and purple hill"
But I drew free and cast aside my Love.

Trembling, I wept, "Then, since it must be so,
Tell me, Sad Heart, hast thou not anything,
Girdle, nor starry gem, nor crown to show;
Stretch forth thy hands, let shine thine offering:
Lo! If I leave my Love and follow thee,

Hast thou no bribe wherewith to solace me?"

"I am the Love that comes with empty hands,
My staff Humility, my path Disdain;

I am the Love that no man understands

Till he has worshipped scorn and courted pain. No treasure in my bosom do I bear

As need wherewith to tempt the worldling's loss; My mantle Poverty; my comfort Care;

Mine only gifts, the thorn-crown and the cross."

"But when I cast aside my pilgrim-gown,
And on my breast I hold thee consecrate,
My love shall be thy jewel and thy crown,
And I thine own reward exceeding great.
I am the Sacred Love that calls for thine:
Spurn thou and fly all lesser loves for Mine."

VOL. XCVIII.-13

THE SQUIRE OF SAINT LOUIS.

(A CHRONICLE OF THE SIXTH CRUSADE.)

BY JOSEPH MILLS HANSON.

GIVE you to know that this is a tale set forth touching a certain matter of the love of a knight and a maid, by a chronicler of olden time who followed good King Louis the Ninth-may God rest his soul! -the saint of the royal house of France, when that the latter made crusade against the Saracens for the redemption of Jerusalem in the year of our Lord 1249.

Now the spring of that year being come, the army of King Louis set sail from the isle of Cyprus, where the winter had been passed; the great lords, vassals to the crown, Robert of Artois, Charles of Anjou, the Counts of Melun and Jaffa, Baldwin of Rheims, and many others with their trains, as also the Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaler. Nigh eighteen hundred vessels there were, large and small, and so vast an array they made that the sea was darkened beneath their sails, and the spread of their banners was like leaves in the forests of Auvergne. Their course was shaped for the city of Damietta, at the mouth of the river Nile in Egypt, since there the King believed that so sore a blow might be struck the infidels as would force them to yield up the road to Jerusalem. But adverse seas and heavy gales made such head against the ships, that numbers of them were scattered, and many days passed until the coasts of Egypt lay spread before the eyes of the crusaders.

On the King's ship, the Mountjoy, there sailed with him his virtuous and lovely Queen, Marguerite of Provence, who had sworn a vow, when her spouse took the cross, that she would never part from him however great the hardships might be in Eastern lands. Now in the retinue of the Queen was a young gentlewoman of Provence, named Eleanor, daughter of a powerful lord of those parts, who was loved tenderly by her royal mistress, both for her nimbleness of mind and her much learning, though by men she was yet more highly esteemed by reason of the great beauty of her person. So fair she was, indeed, that nobles from the uttermost