The large stone fountain in the court splashed
lazily. As the worshippers rose and withdrew, the silver bells rang out
a merry peal, announcing that the morrow would be Sunday.
Roldan fell asleep again. When he awoke it was dark outside, but on the
table by his cot was a lighted taper and a dish of fruit. He ate of the
fine grapes and pears, then rose and opened his door. In the small room
beyond a young priest was seated at a table, bending over a large leaf
of parchment, to which he was applying a pen with quick delicate
strokes. He looked up with a smile.
"What are you doing?" asked Roldan, curiously, approaching the table.
"Illuminating the manuscripts of a mass. Look." And he displayed the
exquisite border to the music, the latter written with equal precision
and neatness. "This will be alive when I am not even dust. No one will
know that I did it; but I like the thought that it may live for
centuries."
"If I did it, I should sign my name to it," said Roldan, with his first
prompting of ambition. "But I never could do that; I have not the
patience. I mean to be governor of the Californias."
"I hope you may be," said the young priest, gravely.
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