When Nellie saw the reptile she grew white from fear and aversion.

"Oh, take it away! take it away!" she cried. "I can't bear to look at it."

Francisco flung it into the bushes.

"Some would stuff it and keep it," he said. "And some make belts of it. But you shall never see it again, my good little Nellie, if you do not wish." Later he told Walter that he would get the snake again, hide it in the wagon when the child was not looking, and sell it to someone at the Springs. It was unusually large and venomous, and loud were the thanks Francisco received on all sides for the rescue.

"Weren't you afraid, my boy?" asked Aunt Mary, placing her hand on Francisco's arm.

"No, I was not afraid," said the boy. "Often I have killed a rattlesnake before."

"But were you not fearful that it would spring at you, or on Nellie, if you made a noise? Or that it might fix its eyes upon you and hold you there?"

"No, no; it is not true that they can do that," said Francisco, "unless, perhaps, with birds, who are so very little that they stand still with fear. The snakes run away when they hear a noise; they are afraid of noise and of men."

"There is probably a nest of snakes in the bushes," said Mr. Page.

"I think so," replied Francisco. "Shall we look?"

"No, no—not for us," said Mrs. Page. "Let us get as far away from here as we can, as soon as we can. The thought of the danger the child escaped makes me nervous and afraid."

"Strange that you did not hear it in the bushes," said Francisco.

"I did," responded Nellie. "I am sure I did. It went 'whiz—whiz,' like a corn-crake or a grasshopper, or those funny little windmills you take in your hand and whirl around, mamma. Why, it made me feel sleepy to listen to it; I know it made me go to sleep——"

"That was the rattle," said Francisco.

Mauricio was already putting the horses into the wagon, and in a few moments they were leaving the beautiful green valley behind, although they did not retrace the route they had taken that morning.

Mauricio, wishing to show them the source of the iron spring, suggested that they make a circuit, which would bring them eventually to the road. All agreed. When they came opposite the bare spot where the immolation of the Indian was supposed to have taken place Walter asked:

"What became of the huge stone under which the snakes were hidden, Mauricio?"

"I do not know," replied the Indian; "I have never heard. Maybe it crumbled to pieces after awhile, or maybe it disappeared as suddenly as it came."

"I went over there this morning, or, rather, Francisco and I did," said Walter, "and we believe, at least I do, that there is nothing peculiar about the spot at all. You can see there have been a great many fires there—that is why nothing grows."

"No Indian would make a fire there," said Francisco.

"Wouldn't you?" queried Mr. Page.

"No, I would not," said the boy. "I would be afraid."

"I would just love to try it," said Walter. "If we were going to stay longer I would."

"And then maybe you would be burned up, like the bad brave of long ago," said Mauricio, laughing.

"Well, we've had one experience to-day; that is enough, Walter," said his mother. "I am not afraid anything might happen, but do not think I would allow you to go against all the traditions of the place. The legend is undoubtedly obscure, but something must have happened there. We have had evidence enough to-day that there are some rattlesnakes about and that the valley deserves its name. I do not think I can ever look at a rattlesnake's skin again."

When they left the valley the road wound up a long, moderately steep ascent overlooking another valley similar to the one they had just left, but much smaller.

"One might truly call this a hidden nook," remarked Mr. Page.

"And that is what they call it," said Mauricio, 'El Valle Escondido'—the hidden valley. "Over there at the edge of the brush is a camp."

When they came nearer they met several Indian children with long, slender reeds in their hands.

"They have gathered them by the stream, and they are taking them to be softened," explained Mauricio. "It is of those that they make baskets."

"The famous Indian baskets?" inquired Aunt Mary.

"Yes," replied Mauricio. "There under that tent is a woman weaving one, and just across sits a man making a mat."

They now saw that they were in the midst of a genuine Indian camp.

"Do those people belong to Cupa?" asked Mr. Page of Mauricio.

"No," he replied; "they are the Volcans—they live up there behind the mountains, but come here in the summer to get the reeds. Always at this season you will find them here. They come and go."

Under hastily erected brushwood dwellings quite a number of persons, mostly women, were seated. They accosted Mauricio and Francisco in their own tongue. "They ask if we will stay a little," said Mauricio, turning to Mr. Page.

Mrs. Page and Aunt Mary both expressing themselves as much interested, the party alighted and walked about the camp. A large portion of the luncheon had been left. This Mauricio distributed among the Indians, after Mr. Page had inquired whether they would accept it. They did not seem so intelligent as the Cupa Indians and looked much poorer. This, Francisco explained, was because they had not had so much intercourse with the white people.

The process of basket-weaving appeared to be slow. The material was soaking in earthern jars, one long strand at a time being woven in and out, apparently without design. However, this is not the case. Wonderfully beautiful shapes these baskets assume under the skilful hands of the weaver.

The rug-maker, a man past ninety, with bent shoulders and white hair, smilingly held up his work for examination. It was of coarser material than that of the baskets and the work went much faster.

"He has all he can do, old Feliciano," said Mauricio. "His son is blind. He cannot work, and his grandson, with whom he lives, has lost the use of his limbs. There are two little girls and a boy, and the mother is dead. With the work of his hands that old man supports four generations. He is teaching it now to his granddaughters, but he tells me that they do not care much to learn it."

"Will he sell us a mat?" asked Mrs. Page.

"Yes, if he has one there. They are nearly always sold before they are finished. The people at the Springs buy them, and now the stores are selling them. They wear very well."

Feliciano had two or three mats on hand. Mrs. Page bought them all.

"Come and see this primitive cooking-stove," said Mr. Page, who had been passing from one tent to another.

A little removed from the rest a brush-shed, open on every side, was being used as a kitchen. A large hole in the roof gave egress to the smoke. A circular wall of round, flat stones about a foot in height had been erected; within this wall the fire had been made. A huge black pot containing an appetizing stew was steaming on the embers. In front of it, in an upright pan, a rabbit was roasting. A woman was peeling potatoes, another cutting green tomatoes and mixing them with mango peppers.

"All that goes into the pot," said Francisco. "Don't you like the smell?"

"Will everybody eat out of that pot?" inquired Aunt Mary, to whom this primitive method did not strongly appeal.

"No one will eat out of it but the dogs—what is left," laughed Francisco. "There are dishes and plates and knives and forks in every house. But everybody will have some of it, for each has helped to provide the food. To-day one does the cooking, or two, or three, and to-morrow others."

After smiling adieux from the Indians the party resumed its journey. On the opposite side of the hill they came to another camp, much more attractive in appearance than that of the Volcans.

"These are some of the Santa Isabel Indians," said Mauricio. "They live in the valleys hereabout, but farther back among the mountains. There was once a church for them, and a very good one, of adobe—now nothing but the walls remain. But they are going to build another. The priest comes once a year."

"Do they have Mass then?" asked Mrs. Page.

"Oh, yes," replied Mauricio. "They have it in the brush-house over there. Did you not see the bells when you came?"

"No; we did not notice them," said Mr. Page.

"They are always photographed by visitors," remarked Francisco. "They came from old Spain. They are the finest toned in California; there is much gold and silver in them."

"We shall have to look at them on our way home," said Aunt Mary. "I am greatly interested in such things."

"They are more than two hundred years old," said Mauricio. "The Volcans and Santa Isabels are very proud of them."

And now once more they were at the top of the ascent overlooking a valley much smaller than either of the others. Behind this rose an almost perpendicular hill covered with an undergrowth of various kinds of bushes.

Two snow-white tents were pitched at its base. In front of one of them a young girl lay reading in a hammock. At her feet a boy was making a bow and arrow. In the door of the tent an old lady, with a white, fleecy shawl thrown over her shoulders and a lace scarf over her snow-white hair, was knitting.

"They are the Almirantes," said Francisco in a whisper to Miss Nellie and Walter. "They come every year to the Iron Spring."

Respectfully saluting the old lady, who arose at their approach, the party was about to pass on when, coming forward, she said, "How do you do, Mauricio and Francisco? And how is Cecilio?"

"All are well, SeÑora," was the reply.

"And you are from the Springs—driving for the day?" she continued, courteously addressing Mrs. Page. Being answered in the affirmative, she said:

"I am the SeÑora Almirante; I live with my grandchildren at the ranch not far from San Diego. We come to this place every year for the last five—no, four years. I find it does me a great deal of good."

Mr. Page then introduced himself and his family.

"Oh, can it be that you are the friends of the Gordons, our neighbors, of whom we have heard them speak so often? Father Gregorio told me also that you had been living in California, and had now decided to remain here."

"Yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Page, "the Gordons are old friends. We were disappointed on coming out to learn that they had gone East again."

"Well, it is only for a time, you know," said the SeÑora. "It is only to settle some business, and then they will return."

"Ramona," she continued, addressing the young lady in the hammock, "come here to be made acquainted with some friends of the Gordons. And you also, Alejandro," to the boy.

They came forward, the girl tall, dark and slender, with a crown of magnificent jet-black hair wound round and round her small head; the boy, several years younger than his sister, but very much resembling her in feature.

"Any friends of the Gordons we are very glad to know," said Ramona Almirante in response to the kindly greetings of Mr. and Mrs. Page. "What a pity you are not camping here with us at the Spring. It is so pleasant."

Walter and Alejandro were by this time conversing like old friends. But the day was wearing on. Mauricio reminded them that there was considerable traveling to be done before sundown, and they were compelled to say good-by. In the few moments' intercourse they had had the Pages were charmed with the SeÑora and her grandchildren. She promised to call at their home in the city in October, when she expected to make her usual yearly trip.

"Will you not come to the Springs for a day before returning to town?" asked Mrs. Page. "We could manage to entertain you pleasantly, and even put you up for the night."

A slight change passed over the SeÑora's countenance.

"I thank you very much," she replied. "I do not go there—I do not like the place; but we shall soon meet again. With friends of the Gordons we must be friends."

"What charming persons," remarked Aunt Mary as they drove on. "If all the old Spanish families were like this one, I do not wonder that poets and story-writers lament their passing away."

"Many are like them," rejoined Mauricio. "The SeÑora has done much good in her time. Once they were a very rich family."

"How very dark the girl and boy are," said Mrs. Page.

"The boy, mother—the boy looks like Francisco. Don't you think so, Mauricio?" asked Walter.

"I have never thought of it," the Indian replied. Francisco said nothing.

They had not gone far when they met two Indians, a man and a woman, both considerably advanced in years, carrying bundles of fagots on their shoulders.

"Ay, ay!" called Mauricio. "Como estan ustedes, Concilio Valeriano?"

The couple halted.

"Ay, ay, Mauricio! We did not know you. We are not so young as we once were," the old man said. "We do not see so well."

"But you are strong and well still," rejoined Mauricio. "We have been at the camp. We have seen the SeÑora. These ladies and gentlemen I have been giving a ride to-day."

"Well, well," said the old woman; "and is this not Francisco?"

"Yes," said the boy; "am I grown tall?"

"Yes, yes, and handsome, too!" exclaimed the old woman. "We are glad to have seen you. How is Cecilio, and Maria, and Juan Diego?"

"All are well," replied Mauricio. "Adios."

"Adios!" rejoined the pair and, bowing politely to the occupants of the wagon, they passed on.

"They are the servants of the SeÑora," said Mauricio, when they had resumed their way. "They have lived many, many years with her. They are related to us, both husband and wife."

The moon had risen when they reached the camp. Charlie was awaiting them with a good dinner. Mrs. Page insisted that Mauricio and Francisco partake.

When the rest of the family had retired Mr. Page, not feeling sleepy, went out for a walk and a smoke.

Near the springs he met the stage-driver, about to fill a pail with hot water. After having told him of their drive and the meeting with the Almirantes, Mr. Page said:

"They seem to be very fine people."

"They are—what is left of them," rejoined old Chadwick. "Forty year I've known them. The old SeÑora is as proud as Lucifer. Captain, I can tell you that, nice as she is. She's never got over that mistake of her son—never will; though she's a mother to both them children."

"What mistake was that?" inquired Mr. Page.

"Why, didn't you notice how dark them two are? Didn't Mauricio tell you nothing about them?"

"No, he did not."

"Why, they're part Indian. Couldn't you see it? Notice how fair the SeÑora is beside them."

"Yes, but we never surmised that they had Indian blood," said Mr. Page.

"Well, they have, sir, good and strong. Their mother is a full-blooded Indian, living on the Mesa Grande—married again to a good fellow—Indian—up there. She's a cousin to Mauricio and Francisco. Lots of their relations living round here. That's why the SeÑora never comes to Warner's. I don't blame her—it's a bitter pill."

"It must have gone hard with her," said Mr. Page.

"It did. Yet she took that girl when she was a baby, and has raised her ever since. They do say she never knew she was part Indian until four or five years ago. The old lady took the boy then—he was at the mission school. Now she sends him up to Santa Clara. They're fine children—the image of their father, both of them. Miss Ramona, she's a perfect lady if there ever was one."

The next day Mr. Page said to Mauricio:

"Chadwick told me the story of the Almirante children last night. I know now why it is that Francisco looks like the boy."

"Yes?" replied Mauricio. "Chadwick talks too much, I think. Still, everybody knows it. But it would not have been for either Francisco or myself to have been the first to tell of that which has caused the SeÑora so much unhappiness."

Which Mr. Page considered, and justly, another admirable trait in the Indian whom he had already learned to admire and respect.