Seated again on Inspiration Point, he gazed long and earnestly into the
gorge below. He could discern neither smoke nor moving forms. All had
changed; not the peaks, or domes, or wonderful waterfalls; all these
remained the same. But where were Red Cloud and kind-hearted Mariposa?
Alfonso's own race now occupied the valley for pleasure and for gain.
Mariposa might not be of his own race, but she had a noble heart.
Education had put her in touch with civilization, and she was as pure
as the snow of the Sierras. He wondered if she ever thought of him. He
remembered that, when he rode away, her face was turned toward the Bridal
Veil Falls. Did she thus intend to say, "I love you?"
At midnight, as the moon rose above the forest, the tall pines whispered
of Mariposa, of wild flowers she was wont to gather, of journeys made to
highest peaks, of weeks of watching and waiting, and of the burial of Red
Cloud at the foot of an ancient sequoia; then the language of the breezes
among the pines became indistinct, and Alfonso, half-asleep, half-awake,
saw approaching a white figure. Two dark eyes full of tears, gazed into
his face, at first with a startled look, and then with a gleam of joy and
trust.
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