CHAPTER XI

TREASURE TROVE

Doña Gertrudis sat before a great log fire, drawing the threads in a new altar cloth. The work was to be like lace and gossamer and would be weighted with silver thread. Tilted back against the wall in his chair, Manuel strummed a _guitarro_, lightly, oh, very lightly, and essayed his new _copleta_--two such pretty stanzas. Was Consuelo going to object to this?

He darted an eye in her direction, but she sat quietly on her bench, slowly sipping her chocolate; in fact, she was even tapping slightly with her toe in time to the tinka-tink, atink-atink. Relieved, Manuel threw back his head, closed his eyes, and abandoned himself to the soul of music that burned within him. Ah, it was delightful to sing of love. Especially now that Consuelo did not interrupt him all the time. Really, he was becoming quite fond of his cousin, and coming to enjoy being with her. Whereas before, when he loved her, _Dios_, what torment; and no musical expression at all.

As for Consuelo, she was glad to be allowed to concentrate upon her own thoughts. In reality life was not at all the simple and boring thing she had once thought it. Safe and sheltered this valley had always been in their lifetime. Tales of Indian massacre beyond the mountains, or over the deserts lying between them and far Chihuahua--they had never touched her. Like wars far away. She had thrilled with horror to hear of them, but they did not touch her life. Yet tragedies were going on all around them all the time.

What was Ess-tevan suffering now? Lightly she had sent would-be suitors off on the long march to Chihuahua through which a lover proved his mettle, and although Steven had not been lightly sent, she had not realized to the full what such a journey might mean. Now she could picture all the hardships and tortures of which she had heard. Perhaps he would never come back and they would never again have word of him or know what had been his end. This thought was too much for her and she wept into her chocolate, so that the spoonful which she took to cover her emotion was very salty. This made her smile. Even upon the verge of one’s seventeenth birthday one cannot be forever repenting, forever gloomy. There are moments in between remorse and an aching heart when coral earrings, a new shawl, the gossip of one’s girl friends, no longer torture, but give relief.

So, although her cheeks were flushed and her eyes unusually bright, both were dry when Consuelo jumped up to welcome Anita de Guevara. She greeted her warmly with a kiss on either cheek. Had Consuelo heard, Anita began at once, of the magnificent new establishment that Don Tiburcio had built on the Rio Grande for the Americana he had married? No? They said it was to be furnished with naught but carved woods from Spain, and every bit of the table silver was to be made in Salamanca and imported!

“Oof! I do not believe that!” protested Doña Gertrudis.

Anita leaned closer to Consuelo. “Is it true what they are telling of Luis?” she whispered.

“What are they telling?” demanded Consuelo, hotly, a trifle faintly.

“That he has turned Penitente. That he no longer games or diverts himself.”

Consuelo was saved from making any reply to this question by the entrance at that moment of Don Anabel, who came in, as always, with a manner of distinction and ceremony, bowing carefully to each of the ladies, maintaining the traditions of that chivalry of the land of Cervantes brought to New Spain by his forefathers.

“What have you learned of the painting?” asked Anita of Don Anabel, the business of saluting all the company in the room being concluded. Anita always asked the most unfortunate questions. Don Anabel became obsessed whenever the painting was mentioned. “Nothing that can give me hope for its recovery,” he replied. “Rather to the contrary. You may remember,” he turned to Doña Gertrudis, “that of the suspects among those who had left Santa Fe during the week when Murillo disappeared (he always referred to the picture as the Murillo), suspicion pointed to the Americano who accompanied the last caravan and who remained here after it returned (as though everyone present did not know Steven perfectly without such careful identification).

“Today I learned that this young man departed the Villa at night. And furthermore that he was seen to vault the wall of our lower garden earlier on that same night, to remain inside the space of twenty minutes or so.” A clatter of amazement and discussion pro and con broke forth. Presently Consuelo made herself heard, almost timidly. (“What a change has come over _la gattita_,” thought Anita, “the little cat who was always throwing out sparks.”)

“But papa, the Americano was seen by Don Tiburcio way south _en route_ to Chihuahua. It was he who saved Doren, the Yanqui’s boy. He would not be likely to be guilty of stealing then, would he?” Consuelo looked about the room for confirmation.

“That is another matter,” Don Anabel decided. “Of course he would succor his countryman. But to take a valuable painting is another thing. Yes, I think he might well do both.” As Don Anabel finished speaking, old Angel appeared in the door with a letter for _el padron_. He brought it to Don Anabel and there was a moment’s silence while it was read. Don Anabel rose to his feet, his lean brown cheeks alternately flushing and paling, and informed the startled company, “Quite apropos of our conversation comes this letter, from the gentleman himself--Señor Ess-tevan Mercer.” (Don Anabel almost hissed the name.) “He has at this moment returned to Santa Fe, brought by his conscience or his need, who can say, and he brings me back my canvas.”

“Tst, tst, tst! _figure-se_; imagine,” clucked Doña Gertrudis. “What does he say, then?”

“This.” Don Anabel opened the sheet which he still held in his hand and read aloud: “My Very Dear Sir: I have but just returned to Santa Fe, and bear with me your lost painting. At least, if I mistake not, it belongs to you,” (“The impudence of the rascal! Belongs to me indeed!”) “I am changing my clothes and refreshing myself somewhat from the fatigue and dust of the journey, but immediately thereafter I shall personally restore the picture to your house, if that is your wish.”

“_Por los santos!_” Don Anabel exclaimed, “but this fellow has assurance. I’ll go fetch it myself, if this is not but a ruse. He is at Doña Katarina’s house.” Don Anabel threw on his black cloak, and stopping for a moment in his office, went forth from the front door.

Consuelo was trembling; her hands and feet were like ice, her face flaming. She could scarcely maintain her composure. In the general chatter and excitement which followed Don Anabel’s astounding message she slipped unnoticed to her room, where Felicita was building up her mistress’s fire.

“Felicita, he has returned! Ess-tevan. And he brings my father’s picture. How he found it I do not know. But here he is, and my father is again accusing him of the theft of it. He has gone off in haste to get his painting, his treasure. I should have told him at once, but I could not there before them all. That would have been worse for my father than never to have regained the picture. I must go tell him now. Quick; come with me. Perhaps we can overtake him.” She threw a black reboso over her head, and with Felicita close upon her heels fled through the garden and out the side gate.

But it was already too late. By the time she reached Doña Katarina’s house, on foot, she saw her father emerging from the door. Felicita pulled her back. Instinctively they drew out of sight. She would have to tell Don Anabel when he returned home. Alas, poor Steven! what had her father said? Then a new thought struck her with cold terror. “Alas! _pobre de mi_, what will Ess-tevan think of me that I did not at least defend him? Does he know?” They crept back through the little lanes.

* * * * *

Steven had just stepped from the vast copper kettle which the good Doña Katarina supplied him for the bath and was joyously rubbing himself dry after his first hot scrub in a month, when there came a knock upon his door. The _criada_, a slovenly girl, called through the door that it was Don Anabel and his attendant without. If they would please sit down, Steven called back. With glad anticipation he hurried into his clothes. The painting was then as valuable as he had thought it might be, and here was Don Anabel himself come to thank him! Good.

Shortly the door of Steven’s chamber opened and Don Anabel was confronted with a stalwart young man, ruddy with health, his skin golden with the varnish of sun and desert, his hair still damp and wavy. He was smiling with assurance, the unconscionable rogue, apologizing for his lack of jacket or coat, and bowing as though in anticipation of warm greetings. Don Anabel arose and stood stiffly erect, his hand on his hip.

“Do I understand you rightly that you have with you my Murillo, my sacred painting?” His nostrils dilated with nervous tension as he hung on Steven’s affirmation.

“Yes, señor, I have it.”

Don Anabel glared coldly at the baffled young man. “What, may I ask, is your price for the safe restoral of the painting?”

“What do you mean? I do not understand you,” Steven stammered.

“Your price?” the Don repeated. “Whatever it is I shall deliver it in consideration of the safe restoral.” The young man made no answer and Don Anabel continued, coldly and deliberately, “If the canvas is returned unharmed you will be permitted to leave Santa Fe without question or arrest. On the condition that you never attempt to return here,” quoth Don Anabel.

With a lofty disregard that matched the New Mexican’s own, Steven ignored the imputation carried by the words--though indeed he had been actually arrested before on suspicion of espionage--and faced the wily older man with wits sharpened by his struggle with the desert these last months.

“Señor”--he looked squarely at Don Anabel--“I expect to be returning to Santa Fe every year, perhaps twice a year, with a caravan of goods. I do not intend to be bullied out of a business field that is extended to others. Is it possible that you are afraid of the advent of Americans?

“In my country gentlemen do not ask requital for the return of property. But as that seems to be the custom here I shall make my demands, too. I must exact the right of unmolested commerce here or I shall not answer for the safe delivery of the painting.” Steven’s voice trembled with anger. Only rage at the treatment he had received from the autocrat before him, overlord of lands that were equal to a kingdom, spurred him to use the painting as a club over Don Anabel’s head. The threat was effective.

Don Anabel would take no chances with the loss or mutilation of his treasure. He credited Steven with a faculty for plotting that he did not possess. If it were himself, he would have arranged that the painting be out of reach of its owner; he could not have believed that it lay on a chest in the adjoining room. He inclined his head in consent.

“_Muy bien_, since you put it that way. I myself will not oppose your trade here further, and I fancy the _jefe politico_ will not of his own accord. The painting?”

Steven called the _criada_, who brought in from his bedchamber a roll of deerskin. Don Anabel seized it, unfastened the wrappings with trembling fingers, and unrolled the canvas, stretching it out before the candles that burned on the mantle.

“The Murillo. Unharmed. _Gracias a Dios!_” Without another word Don Anabel, gesturing to his servant, rolled up the picture again, thrust it beneath his arm, and pulling his cloak tight about him, turned his back upon Steven and strode toward the door. The _moso_ threw upon the floor at Steven’s feet a sack that struck the boards with the unmistakable clink of _moneda_, Spanish duros, sesterces, and reales.

Then Steven’s gorge rose and he shouted, “Stop!” with such suddenness and passion that Don Anabel paused in his tracks. Steven kicked the sack with a rage that shot it straight after the servant and hit him amidships in the rear with such violence that he staggered and plunged forward against the wall.

“Hold!” yelled Steven. “Take your filthy silver out of here, Señor Don Anabel Lopez! I turned back on my way to Chihuahua, retracing my steps over mountain passes and through deserts, to return to you this painting, which I recognized as having seen in your house. I found the canvas on the dead body of a prelate, late of Albuquerque, where, señor, he told me, a night or so before his demise, he had acquired the canvas.

“Believe this tale or not, as you like, but, by the saints, you shall make apology for the accusation of theft. Look nearer home for your crime. If you do not take back your words, I shall spread a tale in Santa Fe that will somewhat tarnish the luster of your honored name.”

Steven stopped abruptly. He had not intended to say that. He had no proof that Luis was responsible for Bragdon’s death, though it was tacitly understood between Juan and himself that it was he who had dispatched the murderers on the Yankee’s trail. He had no proof that it was Luis who had stolen his father’s painting and gambled it away. A terrible silence had fallen upon the room. Don Anabel’s face grew old and drawn. He looked gaunt and thin and sick, as he stood there in his dark cloak, the candlelight throwing a heroic black silhouette against the whitewashed wall. Terrible suspicions had entered his mind. To what did the American refer? He was not sure.

Then the face of the boy before him broke into a disarming smile. “Señor, I am sorry. I did not mean that. Here, shall we not both retract what we have said? Surely you owe me something for having restored your treasure to you? And, after all, why should I have come back if theft were my purpose?”

But Don Anabel was already convinced--forced, in spite of himself, to recognize the _caballero_ in another. A younger man of a hated race, he could not let the youth outdo him in courtesy. He capitulated with the grace of which he was master. “Señor Mercer,” he replied with an inclination of his head, “it is as you say. I have the honor, señor, to request that you will give us the pleasure of dining with us tomorrow night? It is too late for our kitchen this evening, I fear.”

That would be a great pleasure, Steven replied with an imperturbability that belied the excitement he felt. He accepted the long-coveted invitation not with the unalloyed pleasure which he had thought would be his, but with a burning desire to see Consuelo and to find out for himself whether she, too, had suspected him--whether she had had faith in him. Don Anabel took his departure and Steven sat down to his supper and to thoughts of Consuelo. When he saw her again it would be with a knowledge that he had not had before, if what Hope had told him was still true. He burned to make sure that Consuelo had trusted him, for, after all, he told himself, she knew very little of him.

Doña Katarina knocked and entered, bearing a fowl still sizzling from the spit. Steven had been much pleased to find his good landlady returned from Taos, and they chatted now of all that happened during Steven’s absence. Steven told Doña Katarina what had passed between himself and Don Anabel, inquiring if there had been talk in Santa Fe of the loss of the painting. “But yes”--she spread her hands--“of course. What would you? Don Anabel has been near frantic, and all Santa Fe has been busy with the mystery of the theft of the holy painting. Some think that it served the don right for not having presented the painting to the Church long since.

“After you left--the latest massacre would have been as nothing. They talked of nothing but the Madonna and the news that the Yankees had packed their wagon wheels with the silver they gained in trading in Santa Fe. Think of that, to escape the _impuestas_, the duties!” Doña Katarina threw back her head and laughed the rich husky laugh of the full-throated Mexican matron.

Steven grinned unabashedly with her. “But how was it found out? I am curious to know. It was well done. I know, for I helped them do it!”

“Hu!” Doña Katarina laughed till she must hold her sides, and the tears streamed down her cheeks. “Hu-hu! They were held up by Santa Feans, just beyond Raton Pass.” Between her gusts of mirth he learned that as the wagons went bounding over the ruts the axle of one of them broke, and the rim of a wheel came off, disclosing cavities within rim and hub that were filled with silver. No! the Santa Feans did not get it. The Yankees got away, after all.

Steve heaved a sigh of satisfaction and returned to his own matters. “But about the painting? And my departure? Did they, did anyone----?”

“But yes, I tell you.” Doña Katarina nodded vigorously. “It was the talk of the town. Of course I knew, and Consuelo without a doubt knew, that you had nothing to do with its disappearance.”

Steven sat thoughtfully before the fire that night, too tired to go out in search of company, and gave himself over to thought. It was more than a year since the tall, hatchet-faced refugee from Mexico’s perilous presidential chair had walked into his father’s office and commissioned him with an errand which had started him on a twelvemonth of perilous adventuring. What was it, he mused, that should make him stray from the great business in New Orleans that was his by inheritance, to set his heart upon a pioneer undertaking so far from his people? What held Pierre Lafitte and brought him back to his trapping after a lifetime, almost, of solitude, and labor for which he was illy repaid? All the pioneers who dared the desert, the enmity of the Indians, the freezing passage of the Rockies in winter, were not landless and penniless when they started forth.

“One might as well ask the buffalo why they migrate, or the birds of passage,” St. Vrain had said. “It’s instinct. Mankind has it almost as strong as the four-footed or the birds. They want land, room to breathe. It’s only the daring and the brave who blaze trails, who strike out for new business where there’s room and they won’t be crowded out. Only the red-blooded can survive against the odds on the frontier.”

These words came back to Steven with force as he thought about the agreement he had made with Don Tiburcio de Garcia. Well, he felt fit to tackle the Trail and survive, and he would not be forced from the territory as long as others could hold their own in this New World, held by a handful of haughty Spanish and a horde of red men.

No, he would stay, and--and marry, and bring up a family in this land. Mexico? What line across the mountain said that here the English-speaking should stop and forever keep to the other side? The land should belong to those who would build it. And so Steven fell asleep, dreaming of empire and of a piquante face peering over a tipsy balcony in the moonlight.

* * * * *

At that precise moment Consuelo was facing her father in his study. Don Anabel’s voice was shaken. “You mean, Consuelo, that you actually saw Luis hand a long object like this”--he held up the rolled canvas which he had not yet had time to restore to its frame--“out the window to some other waiting there?”

“Precisely, papa. I would swear it was that. I have told you exactly. In justice to Señor Estevan. I think Luis has been protected long enough.”

“It is as I feared,” Don Anabel muttered. “But I did not think, I really did not think, that Luis would have stooped to such an act; that he could be led to this. _Ingrato!_ It is fortunate indeed that no word of this has gotten through Santa Fe.” He felt peculiarly humbled, and at the mercy of this young American who might so easily put his son to public shame. Don Anabel lashed himself into a proud fury. Consuelo drew herself up on tiptoe with her hands on his shoulders and kissed him tenderly. “See, papa, you have the Murillo back again now. And it is Ess-tevan who has thus served you, even after he had been thrown in the _carcel_ and attacked. It is done and over. Let us forget. Luis will have learned his lesson.”

“I could never forget.” Don Anabel shook his head angrily. “My son!”

* * * * *

Supper had been brilliant. Lupe had done herself proud with the dishes. Everyone was in sparkling humor. Don Anabel because the Murillo once more glowed richly from its frame against the whitewashed wall, Doña Gertrudis because Don Anabel was pleased. It was Sunday, a feast day, and the Lenten fast was therefore broken for the week with several kinds of meat and game, with sweets, fresh water cress, and coffee that caused Doña Gertrudis to sigh in ecstasy.

Consuelo was _echando rayos_, (throwing out sparks), as the saying went. Steven was likewise in glowing humor. He was the lion of the occasion. He had been pressed until he had told and retold the adventures of his trip south and what befell him on the road back. But of the fraile and his story of the painting not a word was said; Don Anabel had heard all that the evening before, and had told his family, presumably, for the subject was tacitly and widely avoided by all. Luis alone was not one with the merry company about the table. He was quite different from his old, teasing, swaggering self. Preoccupied, self-centered still, he nevertheless hung nervously upon his father’s words. He gave a grave attention to Steven’s talk, was courteously, cooly attentive. He ate little, and drank not at all. Consuelo herself wondered what had come over Luis.

Could it be true what Anita de Guevara had whispered to her yesterday afternoon? Had Luis reformed and turned Penitente? She shuddered at the thought of that stern brotherhood, unrecognized child of the Church, whose members inflicted torturous penance upon themselves in imitation of the sufferings of Christ and the martyrs. She searched Luis’s face earnestly; but behind his unlined youthful features she could read nothing. He had been away a great deal of late, but he would tell her nothing. She had yearned over Luis, prayed for his salvation, worried over his comings and goings.

But tonight Ess-tevan commanded her full attention. Here he was seated at her father’s table, a thing she had thought would never come to pass. She would tell him afterwards how she repented her proud and hasty words that night in the garden. How wicked she had been to have kept silence about the painting all the time he was away. Surely Ess-tevan would understand how terrible it would have been to have had her father know all the time that it was Luis who had stolen his picture. Especially while it was still missing. What he would have done with Luis she did not know. And had she not given her solemn word to Luis not to betray him? At the time it had seemed the only thing to do.

Whenever Steven could do so without anyone else observing, his eyes questioned Consuelo. She became nervous. Thereafter the meal passed as in a haze. She could scarcely wait until it was over and she might have the opportunity to talk with Señor Ess-tevan. At length Don Anabel arose. He passed around the table to assist his wife, a deference he always practiced when company of any distinction was present. As he waited behind her chair he rested his hand upon his son’s shoulder, as though in a return to his old affection. Luis winced involuntarily, but so slight was the movement that none but an expectant eye would have noted it. As Don Anabel’s hand was withdrawn from his son’s shoulder a crimson stain showed faintly where it had rested. The stain spread ever so slightly on his cloth bolero and a tiny vivid streak appeared on the white linen shirt showing beneath.

Consuelo, sitting opposite Luis and next to Steven, watched the spot, fascinated, unconscious horror in her face. She recovered as Don Anabel drew out his wife’s chair and followed her from the room. Had he noticed Luis’s shirt? Had anyone else noticed? Luis rose and, throwing his poncho over his shoulder, followed the guest of the evening out of the dining room. He did not join the family in the sala, excusing himself at the doorway. After taking coffee with the others before the fire, Don Anabel had retired to his _despacho_, where the business of the haciendas was attended to, and still sipping another cup of the coffee, Doña Gertrudis, who had long since passed the point of stimulation with the cup, dozed off into a comfortably drugged state.

Consuelo sat opposite Steven, alone; chaperoned, but not too well. She looked timidly at the big fellow standing astride the buffalo rug before the fire. He had grown taller since she last saw him and had filled out with muscle. Consuelo felt no longer that sense of power which always had made her mistress of a situation. She was trembling.

Steven came over to her bench and stood beside it, looking down upon her. “May I sit beside you, señorita?”

She made room for him and they looked into the fire for a space.

“I have come, as you know, from Don Tiburcio and the Señora Garcia,” he began at length, awkwardly. “My countrywoman told me how kind you were to her while she was ill.”

“We did very little,” Consuelo murmured. “We owed her a great deal more.”

Neither of them spoke, embarrassment tying their tongues, then Consuelo echoed softly, “And we owe you still more.”

They both looked up to where above the mantel Don Anabel’s prized painting hung. The old master stood forth with great beauty against the austere whiteness of the wall. This brought Steven to the point.

“Señorita”--he looked directly at her--“you did not think, after I left, that I had anything to do with the disappearance of your father’s painting?”

“No, no, Señor, Ess-tevan. How could I? Had I not known you in the least I could not have thought such a thing, when you were going off so magnificently to save the Americans.”

“Nor when I came back with the painting and your father thought I had surely got possession of it somehow and taken it away?” He leaned toward her, his eyes eager, his whole attitude one of waiting to hear her defense of him. He laid a hand over hers. Happiness swam before him. Dared he take her in his arms, here?

“No, no, if you had not taken it you had not. Because you brought it back proved nothing but your generous service. I would never have believed such a thing. Besides, I _knew_, Ess-tevan, that _you_ could not have taken it, for I saw another do that, though at the time I did not know what was being taken.”

“You saw--another?” Steven faltered, in surprise. “But you did not tell your father, when there was all this talk, after I left, that I was the thief?”

The words fell in complete silence. Consuelo looked away, her face burning. No words came to her, now that the fearful moment had come. This was not going as she had dreamed, this meeting. For months she had prayed just to have the chance to ask forgiveness of Steven for her proud manner on the night that she had sent Steven off on his journey. And not a word of his love had he mentioned. Did he not care any more whether or no she loved him? He was looking at her now with hurt surprise.

“You saw some one else take the picture,” he was repeating, incredulously; a dull red mantled his forehead, his boyish face was stubborn and hurt. “You knew who did it, and yet you let your father and all this town, where I expected to build up a business in trade, you let them believe that I was a common thief?”

Consuelo looked wildly at him. Tears started in her eyes, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth as he stammered mercilessly on: “And I can say nothing. I can imagine who took your painting. The fraile told me how he got it. And you, señorita, on the very night that you sent me to risk my life in the desert, not because of the poor little lad or a hated Yank, nor for the sake of the girl, but to save your brother’s soul--after that you kept silence about why I entered your garden. You did not tell who took the painting?”

All the pent up thoughts of his months alone on horse, riding with only thoughts for company, came out in the deluge of unaccustomed speech.

“Oh, Ess-tevan, I could not tell,” Consuelo implored, forcing her words as he stopped talking. “It would have broken my father’s heart. I--I had promised not to tell. I--I did not know you would come back this way, even. I prayed, I thought, something would happen meanwhile.”

“It has,” Steven answered, coldly, bowing and reaching for his hat. “Señorita, I have the honor to bid you good night. Will you extend my thanks and farewell to your so generous parents?” He found himself walking out through the door into the chill of the night air. His emotions were at a white heat of rage, or was it that he was stone cold?

He did not seem to know exactly what he was doing. Only he felt an alien chill against all that had drawn him back to the Villa. He strode down the dark narrow street, feeling his way by familiar walls and posts, till he came to Doña Katarina’s house.

“Juan,” he called, for the man had returned to him the night before, “get the horses and the mules, ready to leave for Taos the first thing in the morning.” He went into his room and proceeded to pack everything he owned. When all was strapped and ready he laid out his buckskin clothes and went to bed. Strangely he slept. His body and his emotions were tired, and he was young. But he had shut his mind in a coldly determined way.

Consuelo did not sleep till toward dawn. When Steven had seized his hat and stalked out of the room she could scarcely credit it. She stood before the fireplace, clenching and unclenching her hands, raging after her old fashion. Gradually she quieted and utter misery engulfed her. Doña Gertrudis awakened. With forced calm Consuelo delivered Steven’s message and then bade her mother good night.

When she reached her room a storm of tears broke and she wept for hours. Felicita stayed with her, and at length, when she had spent her strength, she sent the tired woman to bed, but Felicita lay down upon the floor at her side and would not leave her. Reason began to function in the early hours of the morning and Consuelo realized that the Americano, too, had his pride.

“Because he was always so amiable I did not realize how it would hurt and anger him to be suspected and to know that I could have stopped it,” she told herself, finding her only consolation in justifying him. “I will go to him myself in the morning,” she decided at last, as light was beginning to break in the east, and fell asleep.

The sun was already well up when Consuelo awoke. She dressed hurriedly and, leaving her chocolate untasted, hastened out through garden and toward the cathedral, which she would pass on her way to Doña Katarina’s house. She entered the church for a moment’s prayer, and as her black reboso disappeared within the door a horseman stopped outside the cathedral, hesitated for a moment at the foot of the steps. Then, with a quick gesture of determination he slapped his mare’s flank and rode on through the town, followed by his Indian attendant.

When Consuelo came out a few minutes later there was no one to be seen on the street, and when she arrived at Doña Katarina’s she learned that it was too late.