When the night was old, and others slept, Raquel Arteaga crept in silence to the bedside of the old Indian woman of the hill tribe who had been her nurse, who was still her maid, and who was the one link she kept near her of the old life.

"Tia Polonia, awake!" she said, briefly; and as the woman did so, frightened and full of questions, her mistress held up her hand and rested herself on the side of the pallet, regarding the dark old face with doubt.

"Thy husband, beloved,—he has—"

"It is not my husband this time, Polonia. He is quite safe at the gaming-table, and will come in at sunrise with empty pockets. It is not my husband. It is—" She paused a long time, scrutinizing every feature of the old woman, who grew gray of visage under those smouldering eyes, and her hands shook. "Darling, little one, thou art so like thy mother; more than ever when angry, and it is night; and I—Holy God! It is like a ghost comes to my bed to—to—ah, DoÑa Espiritu—mia!—what is the anger in thine eyes?"

"Can a dead woman be angry?" demanded her mistress drearily, the beautiful curved mouth quivering for an instant. "And it is a dead woman they have made of me—all of you! You lied to me, Polonia, when you brought word to me he had died there in Mexico!"

The old woman covered her face with her hands, and sank back whimpering on the pallet.

"I trusted you, and you lied to me, all of you!" the girl repeated in a hopeless tone of finality. "All these months he has been alive, and I have not known. You liars—liars—liars accursed!"

The old woman uttered a smothered shriek, and buried her face in the blankets.

"Not the curse, beloved, not the curse!" she begged, tremulously, "the curse of your people. It means—it means—Ai! not the curse, little one! Thou hast only meant to frighten me to tell you how it was, and I will—I will! Only, child of the spirits, DoÑa Espiritu, bring not the curse!"

She cowered and mumbled in a sort of palsied fear, but the girl sat there untouched by her misery, looking at her drearily. Perhaps she had some slight hope of denial, but Polonia's gray face put that out of her reach.

"Sit up," she commanded, and the old woman hastily scrambled into a sitting posture, but with her hands over her eyes, her body still rocking with fear. "Why did you do it?"

Never before had Tia Polonia heard those hard cold tones from her "querida"—her little one—her nursling of other days. This girl sitting there erect in the glimmering light of the candle was really DoÑa Espiritu of the tribe of the kings.

"Excellencia," she muttered, "it is true; I did sin. But the padre gave me the word. He said your soul was lost; that the man had bewitched you as—as your little mother had been bewitched when she—when she left religion for your father, and in the end they both died—and so soon!—and—and I wanted you to live, Excellencia! and I wanted your soul to live; and—so it was I took the word of the padre to you, and told you he was dead—and wished that he was dead—but it was all no use at all! On his hand when the fever burned was your ring—it kept him alive and he could not die, and all day and all night he said, 'DoÑa Espiritu! DoÑa Espiritu!' The padre heard, and I heard. The American brother, he heard too, and asked the Indios who was DoÑa Espiritu, and where did she live, that he might send for her. But it was no use. The padre made them all afraid for your soul, so that I told you the lie. Now it is all said, and my life is going out of my body at the curse of your anger."

In fact, the fear in the old creature had worked on her own nerves, so that her final words were very faint. She spoke as one half swooning, and put out her hand in pitiful plea for help.

"Ah—the good padre," said the girl, bitterly. "Well, you see how it has all ended. The padre died, and has gone to God to answer for the lie; and the man he wished dead is alive—alive—alive, and oh—Mother of God! is happy with—with—"

Her cold self-control melted in a flood of tears, and she flung herself face down on the pallet beside the frightened Indian woman, her form shaken with shuddering sobs of absolute despair.

The dawn was near. All the night she had walked in her room alone, stunned and wordless over this thing she could not fight, or reason, or pray away; and now, having heard it all,—even of his calls for her when unconscious,—she had let fall for the first time the cold mask she had worn since the death of DoÑa Luisa, and since the significance of her vow had been revealed to her by the days and nights of Rafael's life.

She wept in a wild abandonment of grief at the hopeless vista of years reaching on to the edge of the world where death is. It had all been dreary enough before; but now—

When the birds began their welcome of the day she was still lying prone, but silent. The tempest of feeling had passed, and her Indian woman stroked her hair softly, and waited, and did not speak. At last she rose, and looked out on the yellowing light touching the purple of the mountains.

"This is only a dream of the night, Polonia," she said, with a great sigh; "sleep again, and forget it all."

But the old woman clung with trembling hands to the folds of the girl's gown, and rested her cheek on the silken slippers.

"And the curse, darling? what of the curse of the lie?"

"Curses come home to the people who utter them," said the girl, drearily. "On my head they all lie—the curse by which I was made blind for a little, little while of life, and which now allows me to see when it is too late. The curse of God has followed our people; no blessing of the Church can wipe it out." "But I—I—beloved?"

"The sin that is for love is not so black a sin, and it was your love the padre trusted to—your fear that I was bewitched and lost. But it is all over; we are in a new land, and this is a new life."

"And—he is happy—without thee?"

"I have seen his wife; people call her beautiful. I saw him almost touching her, yet I did not scream."

"Mother of God! his wife!"

"I heard her name,—it was enough. His I did not need to ask; I remembered."

"But—dear one—it is better that he is married. Pardon, beloved—I am at thy feet, and I feel thy heartache. But, after all, is it not to thank the saints that he is married?"

"Perhaps. Otherwise, he might say to me some day, 'Come!' And the witchcraft of the ring might hold, and—"

"Holy Mother! and then—"

"And I—God knows what I might do, Polonia."

And then the old Indian woman was left alone, mumbling prayers and crossing herself.

Later she got up and went to the priest of Our Lady of the Angels and brought a bottle of holy water to sprinkle on the threshold of the street door, and all sides of DoÑa Raquel's room, that no curse of witchcraft or bad dream of the night might have power over the days.

It was broad daylight when Rafael came home whistling gayly a dance of melody. He had been gifted with unusual good luck, and his pockets were full of gold pieces. He threw a buckskin sack of coin on his wife's bed before he noticed that she was not lying there.

"Hola! Raquelita mia! There is plenty to pay for masses; your priests always want money for that sort of thing. Since you look after my soul, I pay for the prayers when I have good luck."

Raquel arose from where she knelt at the little altar in the corner.

"Oh, is that where you are? What need to pay the priests when you do enough praying for an army?"

She smiled absently, but did not speak. He stood watching her as she brushed her mass of dark, slightly waving hair.

"Let your woman do that," he said at last, with perfunctory solicitude. "It tires your arm, and I don't want you tired to-day. There is a picnic, and we should go."

"Which of our friends make it?"

"It is DoÑa Maria Downing, who, as our one neighbor down the country, wants to add to the entertainment Los Angeles gives you. It is to make peace with the bishop, I think; at least, so it looks. He is invited. You can help them to be friends. Is that not the duty of us both as good Catholics?"

She halted in her task and looked at him quietly. He was plainly set on being very agreeable, for some reason; too seldom had he mentioned their faith but to scoff at the rigid rules of his mother and his wife.

"You want it very much," she said; "but why? You do not care at all for DoÑa Maria's personal peace with the bishop. That can be arranged without a picnic to the hills. It only needs that they give back, of their own free will, that which belongs to the Church, and make a confession that it was wrongly held."

"If you would only talk to her of this graciously, instead of demanding it," persisted Rafael, gently, "much could be effected. DoÑa Angela thinks for certain—"

"DoÑa Angela?"

"Oh, I mean her—the relative who is with her now—the Mrs. Bryton who drove with her yesterday. The bishop asked who she was—you remember?"

"I remember," she said, quietly, though a little shudder touched her. "But I am tired of this town, Rafael. I meant to tell you so this morning. I want to ride home to-day. DoÑa Maria's merry-makings do not attract me. Our business here is over; let us go."

"Holy God! but you are a wife for a man!" he cried in sudden fury. "I weigh you down with jewels and silks and laces, and you would bury them all with yourself in that old rat-hole of a Mission. I wish to God the padre and DoÑa Maria had blown down every brick of it before you saw the accursed place!"

"Accursed? The Church of God? Rafael!"

"Ay, accursed, since you will know!" he repeated. "Every old Indian of San Juan can tell you that."

"Some Indian, perhaps, who has had to be whipped by the padres," she remarked, with quiet scorn.

"You don't believe me?" he cried. "Well, you shall! Sit down—sit down and listen for once, and you will be glad to keep out of the curse-haunted place."

She regarded him with a little tolerant smile, and drew a serape of blue around her, and curled herself on the foot of the bed and waited.

"It is early for stories," she observed; "but since it is your pleasure—" "Not any pleasure has any of it been to me from first to last," he retorted, "nor any pleasure will it be to whoever holds it! You think you are strong, your saints will help you! But no saint ever put on an altar—not even that of the Virgin herself—can take off the curse from San Juan till the altar is bathed in human blood, as the tiles of the floor have been bathed—that is the curse of Sahirit."

She stared at him with wide eyes and blanching face.

"Until the altar is bathed in human blood, as the tiles of the floor have been," she whispered. "Rafael! That—that is of a religion older than the life of Christianity in Mexico. God of Gods! Does it follow me here?"

"Follow you!" and he laughed contemptuously; "it is a story older than our grandfathers. Only the old Indians whisper it now each time ill luck comes to any of us—and I've had enough! When they picked up Miguel tramped into the earth by the cattle, only the white men would help—no Indian; they knew it was the curse coming true."

"Tell me," she said, briefly. Her lips were white, and she shuddered with cold, and drew the serape close.

"You'd rather hear some old Indian tell it," he answered; "they make one chill when they count on their fingers and toes the things the curse has brought. We had a curse of our own in the Arteaga family: my mother was always in prayer because of that; she never knew that Miguel had bought an interest in another."

"Go on—tell me! How comes the rule of the Aztec altar to this Christian temple?"

"Aztec? I did not say Aztec. I know nothing of their mummeries. But it can't be that—there have been no Aztecs since the time of Cortez and the priests."

"I—I have heard there is one hill tribe still refusing the saints, and giving the sun worship," she said, slowly. "But go on; tell me!"

"Sun-worship! yes, that's the thing!" he cried. "A man, who was a heretic of Mexico and a great builder of stone, killed a priest and a woman down there. Some say the woman was his wife. He was to have his head cut off for it, but word went down from here that such a man was needed by the priests of San Juan; they wished to build a stone church instead of adobe brick, as all the others were, if only a master mason could be sent to them. They had soldiers to guard him, even if the man chanced to be a convict, as many of the guards had been, and they got the viceroy to help; and in the end the heretic who had killed a priest was sent to San Juan. The old Indios say he looked as big as two men, and he worked as he pleased. When the padres interfered he sat down and looked at the piles of stone and did nothing, and nothing could move him. They could have shot and buried him, but that would not build their church, which was to be the finest in the Californias. So they had to let him alone, and he built it as pleased himself. Their ground plan only he accepted. It was like a cross, as you see it now, but on no other part of the church was any symbol of Christianity—only stars and other things which some say are flowers and some say are suns and moons, and on the corner-stone and key-stone of the high altar is carved a thing no Christian can read, not even the padres—and somewhere in those symbols is held the curse."

"Who says? Did he?"

"He? No; he died laughing, and refused the blessing of the priest. One thing only he said when he read the words on the oldest bell, as he built a place in the tower for it. The name of the maker is on the bell; you can see it yet; it is Ruelas. 'So Ruelas made you—iron-tongue,' a soldier heard him say, 'and your name is San Juan. Well, SeÑor Ruelas, you only have your name in this work. The good padres will see that my name is forgotten, but instead of a name, I will leave myself, and so long as stone stands on stone I will call louder and farther than your iron tongue when rung your loudest! When the storms of centuries shall beat out every star and moon and sun in the stone of the temple, the man from Culiacan will be remembered here in Sahirit.'"

"Sahirit?"

"The Indian name for the valley was 'Quanis Savit Sahirit'; you can see it on the church records."

"And it means?"

"No one knows, and no one cares; it may mean another curse, for all I know. The Indios either do not know or will not tell."

"But—" and she drew in a long breath of relief—"what the man from Culiacan said to the bell—the thing the soldier heard—was not a curse; it was only that the beautiful work should be remembered."

"Oh, yes, that! But there was a prophecy years before, when the corner-stone was set in its place and blessed by the padres, and the Indios were all there on their knees saying a rosary, and the viceroy and all the dignitaries. An Indian hunter was also there from the south, and he was a stranger. He looked at the thing carved on the corner-stone, and he looked at the builder, who leaned against the wall and laughed when the holy water touched it; and the stranger crossed himself, for his mother was a convert; but to the captain of the guard he said the thing I told you, and the captain of the guard was of my father's family. So it was repeated down to our time."

"But the words—he said what of a prophecy?"

"He said human blood, and not holy water, must baptize the stones and the altar of a temple with those signs. He was afraid the padre would put malediction on him if he told him that the blessing of a Christian saint was not so strong as the gods of the Indians, but he would not stand or kneel beside the lines where the church was to be, and he would not tell why he was afraid. He said he did not know what would happen there: it might be a tidal wave from the sea in sight, or it might be a pestilence, for the people were very wicked and very dirty, but it was marked with a sign for evil, and it would be well if the walls never went higher."

"Well?"

"They tried to get him to tell the padre, so that the builder might be whipped, but the stranger Indian was afraid. He said he wanted to live to see his children again, and they lived south in the hill country; and he ran away when they tried to keep him, but he had warned some old Indios, and when the first earthquake cracked the walls, they all remembered."

"And—?"

"The mason laughed, but mended the cracked walls and went on at work, always singing, always working, even before sunrise. The old Indios who helped said it was at sunrise hour only that he worked on the keystones with the suns and star things, but they maybe lied. And after the dedication of the church he died as he lived, laughing and a heretic; and when the earthquake came and the tower of the bells fell, and the tiles of the floor were wet with the blood of the thirty-nine lives crushed out there, then the old Indios whispered and remembered many things; for the prophecy of the strange learned Indian of the south had come true."

"And—the altar? Did—some one—"

Her lips were stiff as with cold, and she could scarcely articulate.

"Holy God! how white you are, Raquel!" he exclaimed. "I thought you were not a coward like the other women. Take this wine—take it! Por Dios, but you gave me a fright!"

She swallowed the wine, and smiled absently at his excitement, and drew the serape closer. She did not speak again for a long time, just sat staring out toward the blue of the hills.

"Are you in a trance?" he demanded. "Santa Maria, but you are a wife to come home to! If I interest you at all, I have to talk to you of things bad enough to scare the devil. Now you see why DoÑa Maria blows down the walls—they were accursed from the beginning. She thinks maybe she is doing a pious thing, who knows?"

"Selling to others the stone that is accursed?"

"Oh, that is a side issue. But I think truly, Raquelita, she is afraid of the bishop now, since you have come. I even think she wants to be friends; DoÑa Angela told me. She has promised that she will build a chapel there of adobe, if the bishop will give his benediction. Much of bad luck is coming to them, and she is growing afraid."

"Yes; she has no sense of justice in her; she has only fear," returned Raquel. "Let her build chapels if she likes, but the blessing of God was put on those stone walls, as well as the curse of a heretic, and what she has done is sacrilege. I will do nothing to countenance it, or allow it to continue."

"But, at least, you will do one thing," he said, emphatically. "You have heard enough of the curse to show you why it is no place for human beings to live. Only half the curse is carried out. The tiles have been baptized by human blood—but not the altar. You will stay here with live people, and let the old ruin wait alone for the curse to be lifted."

"I will go back," she said, with sudden decision, dropping the serape from around her shoulders and beginning to braid her hair. "No, you need not swear like that, Rafael; God would shut His ears if He heard you. You have told me a fine story of fear, and some of it may be true, but our duty lies there. We may lift the curse; we can go back and try."

Her husband sprang to his feet and flung his chair crashing into the low window opening on a veranda. The shattered glass fell in a glittering heap, but the noise of it did not drown his oaths.

"It is no use at all to break the windows of our friends, Rafael," observed his wife; "and neither the saints nor Our Lady the Virgin will allow such curses as yours to be heard. There are dangers here for—for both of us, perhaps,—dangers more to be afraid of than the walls of the good padres. I ride back to-day."

"You think of it as all past, that curse?" he demanded, threateningly. "Well, you think so! Priests have gone mad there, though the Church keeps it quiet. Since the year Don Eduardo and DoÑa Maria bought it, what has happened? All their land is slipping away. To-day she is building an adobe on the old Mission ranch, to hold one hundred and sixty acres in case they lose all the rest of their thirty miles of ranches. Two of her sons have been killed in the streets—one by a woman. All that remains is slipping slowly through their fingers. It is like a handful of wheat: the closer they try to hold it, the less they have in their hands. All they try is of no use. When they first bought those old walls of the Mission at Pico's auction, they were masters of the land, but what of that?"

"If it is a curse, they earned it by tearing down the temple consecrated to God, that is all!"

"All? Miguel, my brother, blew down no walls; he did no harm to anything at all. He only bought an interest in the Mission lands, and claimed some living-rooms as his share, and he is struck like the others by the curse, and does not die in his bed either, but is trampled into the earth until no one can see him!"

"But that may be the other curse working—the curse on the Arteagas. You people seem to have earned a great many! Is it not time some of the family should try to live for blessings?"

He did not answer, only stared at her with angry eyes and lips twitching in wrath he could not express. She looked at him an instant, and stretched out her arms wearily. All the glorious world of love about them, yet never aught of harmony in their two lives linked together. She had never seen the life domestic of young people. She did not know what it might mean to other women, but there were days when she grew sick with the dread of future years, the endless prison of her vow, the—

Suddenly she turned to him with a little gesture of appeal, almost tremulous. It was such weary work to battle constantly; and his mother—

"Rafael," she said, gently, "the blessings are in the world somewhere—shall not we try to find them? The old lives of the maledictions are gone. Ours is the new life, and we have done no wrong to expiate. And it may be, if we live as—as your mother would have wanted us to live, that the saints—"

"To the bottom of the sea with your saints!" he broke in, angrily. "Por Dios! you are always dragging the dead out of their graves to make the days like a funeral. I prefer most the picnic in the hills, and I go to-day."

"So do I," she answered; "but it will be to the hills of the south by the sea. To-night the moon shines, and the ride will be better than a picnic of your political friends." "By—"

"It is no sort of use for you to make empty oaths, Rafael. I leave this town to-day; with you if you are wise, without you if you are not. But I myself—I go!"

He went out and slammed the door, and directly she heard him tell Juan Castillas that he had married one of the wooden saints of the Mission come to life.

"I am glad it is not one with the broken glass eyes and the missing fingers," laughed Juan. "DoÑa Raquel is the most beautiful woman in the Californias to-day."

She turned from the window and looked at herself in the mirror. The most beautiful woman in the Californias! Was that so? Could it be? Yet what was beauty, after all, if—

Between herself and the glass another face seemed to arise,—the blue-eyed childish face for which she had been forgotten.

"Holy Mother!" she moaned, and covered her own with her hands. "Of what use is beauty to a woman who is not beloved?"