Three days later, Keith Bryton opened his eyes within the white walls of a little room in the Mission. The wooden shutters of the barred window were open, and all was still. A meadow-lark called somewhere without, and he could hear down the valley the beat of the surf against the cliffs. A bearded priest sat in the window reading a book, and a woman coming from the dining-room, through the quaint old Moorish doorway stopped suddenly with a quick-caught breath of fear as his eyes opened at the rustle of her dress, and he smiled at her with a great sigh of relief.

"DoÑa Espiritu!" he murmured. "I knew you would come if I waited. Such a bad dream has been with me! I thought I was back in California, and you—ah! there were higher barriers around you than the convent walls, and—"

DoÑa Raquel stood motionless, with the little earthen olla of spring water in her two hands. Her face grew white, and she glanced at the man in the window-seat. He raised a finger of warning to his lips, and arose and came forward.

"You must not talk, Don Keith," he said, quietly. "One cup of water, since the lady brings it to you, and then to sleep again. Sleep is best."

"You were of the dream, too," muttered Bryton, fretfully, "the bad dream. Espiritu mia! tell me it is not true. I cannot think; my head—"

"Tell him, DoÑa Espiritu," said the man with the book. Then he gave her a glance of warning and touched his temple significantly. She crossed the room and placed the water beside him.

"What shall I tell you, Don Keith?" she asked, softly. "I am sorry you have been so ill and the bad dreams have come. This is Padre Libertad; he has nursed you very well. We must all obey him and let you sleep."

"But not to dream again," he protested. "Be kind, as you were in the hills of the temple,—give me your hand again,—then I will sleep without the hell of dreams." At the command of the padre, she obeyed, and he took her one hand in both of his and drew it across his lips. A shudder passed over her at his touch, and she rested her other hand against the whitewashed wall for support.

"Courage, my daughter," said the man with the book, gently; and the man on the bed looked at him and smiled.

"Courage?" he said. "You should have seen her when she faced that mob of Indians and saved us. We had not meant to spy on their ceremonies, and we paid dearly for getting lost in the wilderness. Still, it was worth it, DoÑa mia! It was worth going through it all, even the hell of dreams, to find you again like this, and your hand in mine."

She did not speak, only turned imploring eyes on the padre.

"You need not mind him," continued Bryton. "I like him better than the old padre, and he shall marry us when I come back. Now I can go to sleep."

He held her hand in his, and when she tried to draw it away, he smiled with closed eyes, and whispered, "You remember how we watched all the stars cross the sky? And then the morning star, the star of the Holy Spirit, that was yours, DoÑa mia; and then—then—you remember all—all of our one night?" "All of it—always!"

He smiled with his eyes still closed, and released her hand, and did not see her as she swayed toward the door and was caught in the strong arms of the man she called Padre Libertad. When she knew where she was again, she found her face and hair wet with cold water, and all the women about with cordials and cures.

"It is a fever; she will get it next," prophesied DoÑa Maria. "A woman who neither eats nor sleeps gets ready for the graveyard."

But Raquel waved aside all their cures and sent for Padre Libertad.

"You broke your vow of silence there just now for him," she said, abruptly. "Break it now for me. You know?"

"God help you, Raquel Estevan! I know. No one else ever shall, and whatever you want done shall be done."

"God help me, indeed!" Raquel moaned. "To the soul of Rafael I am bound all the days of my life. I want nothing done. I dare want nothing."

Raquel went no more into the room where Keith Bryton awoke to a hold on life and reason,—that was the one thing perplexing to the man in the priest's gown; and not even Ana was allowed to hear the constant demands for DoÑa Espiritu, or the girl of the temple, or the lady who had led him out of the wilderness under the light of the morning star! All those things would have seemed like maddest ravings to any but Padre Libertad, who carefully excluded all visitors from the room, despite the protests of DoÑa Angela, who claimed the privilege of relationship,—a claim denied by a shake of the head of the silent, book-reading padre.

Raquel moved almost as silently about the corridors of the Mission, serene, quiet, and busy, always busy with the entertainment of her numerous guests. The people of the country rode on any pretext to San Juan in those days, to meet the Downings and talk by the hour in the cool shadows of the patio concerning the tragedies of the bandits. The beautiful old Mission town had gained a new sort of fame through them.

Rafael arranged barbecues and picnics to the caÑons, where the wild-rose thickets were yet odorous with bloom. Even a dance was arranged by some of the gentlemen in the old wing of the Mission, called the travellers' room,—a Spanish dance at which only those wearing the old Spanish costumes dared keep time to the music, and the Mexican serape was discarded for the velvet cloak or cape of grander days.

The younger men rode fifty miles for costumes. Don Juan Alvara, who still wore knee-breeches, stockings, and buckled shoes, had promised to go to bed earlier that night because of the demand on his wardrobe. Raquel delved in old chests of DoÑa Luisa Arteaga's belongings, and brought out treasures of embroideries and brocades enough to turn the heart of Angela Bryton bitter with envy. She knew Raquel would look a barbaric queen in the jewelled bodices where topazes formed the hearts of yellow roses, or real pearl-embroidered lilies, and in laces—laces to wrap her like a mummy, leaving only those great violet eyes of hers visible to gaze in that serene haughty way at one, and through one!

But once having been forced by circumstances to take the hand of a guest in hers, Raquel Arteaga raised no material barriers to hospitality.

"They are at your pleasure, SeÑora Bryton," she said, graciously. "After you have selected what you would like, Carmella and Juanita may care for some of them. The white brocade of the lilies would become you. There is a white mantilla of lace to go with it, and pearls—plenty of pearls."

DoÑa Maria and Teresa Arteaga exchanged glances. They had never objected to the favorites of their husbands,—no good wife did,—but even the most devoted of Mexican wives had never opened her jewel-box for her rival.

However, they decided in confidence that Raquel had appeared strange and indifferent since the day of the fainting spell. She was more kind and gentle, if anything, to Rafael himself, even tender in little cares for his comfort, as his own mother might have been. But beyond the tender, conciliating, half-maternal attitude toward her husband, she walked as in a dream of indifference toward the rest of the world. Full of care as a hostess, she yet spent no moment alone with any guest except the silent padre, who paced the corridors, his eyes on a book, and always on guard at the door of the American, who had almost given his life that an unknown priest might live.

Rafael himself did not understand Raquel's gentle, devoted attitude. Once, as he smoked in the corridor facing the sea and commented aloud on the charms of a pretty girl who crossed the plaza, some man, standing there, took up the subject and spoke of his wife—Rafael's—and the lucky fellow he was to get her,—that girl of the South with her strange, alluring beauty not to be defined, but so surely felt by all who had the happiness to meet her. As Rafael listened, he, for a moment, felt again a delight in the barbaric sense of possession of her. It was true; she was of strange beauty, and he knew every man envied him. The thought of it brought back the remembrance of the fitful passion she had aroused in him there in Mexico, where the bars of the convent had made more keen his desire for victory. Some echo of that fitful passion sent him from the man in the plaza to the door of her room. It was not love; but she was his, and—he was an Arteaga!

The shadowy room was lit by the soft glow of candles on the altar of the Virgin. She had knelt there until some wave of feeling swept over her, leaving her prostrate at the feet of the serene, tender, changeless Mother of Sorrows. For a moment he halted, but the brandy he had been drinking was of the best. The DoÑa Angela had gone bathing with the others on the beach, while he had been kept in the town by some business, and a man must console himself. He remembered that he had won this girl, whom others found beautiful, from one altar there in the South; it gave a certain zest to his present determination. A woman could pray at any time; but just now—well, she should remember she was his!

What he said he did not clearly remember afterwards; but he was strong, and he had been silent, and she was gathered in his arms and lifted to her feet, and he was seeking her lips with his, when, with a cry that was terrible in its smothered rage, she wrenched herself free and darted to the table where the jewel-box lay open, and on the top of strings of pearls shone the glittering steel of a dagger. What she said to him turned him, sullen and cowed, toward the door. But there she stopped him.

"Your child, and the mother of it there in the willows, are my care, Rafael Arteaga, as they would have been the care of your mother, had she lived. I have sworn to that dying mother to live beside you, and guard you from what harm I can, but if you still take your marriage vows to the willows, you put aside the sacrament of your marriage to me. Never again, while you choose to live like that, must you cross to me where this altar is. I guard your soul for your mother, but by the Virgin, and by this cross on the dagger, I will send you to account there where she is, if you come to me like that again! I give my life to keep my vow; but if you drive me to it, my soul may yet have to pay in the other life for the loss of your own!"

As he stumbled out of the door he met the Padre Libertad pacing the corridor, as usual, with his book. He did not lift his eyes or speak, and Rafael passed on sullenly, muttering an oath: each way he turned in the Mission he met an altar or a priest!

Ana, coming through the portal of the inner court, met him there, and heard the oath, and was filled with fear of a discovery so appalling that her woman's wit left her, and she blundered and caught his arm and questioned.

"But, Rafael, he has done nothing. That he was at the door of Raquel is not—"

"Sure, it is not," he agreed, scoffingly. "But when a man has a wife of his own,—even Raquel Estevan de Arteaga,—he does not want a black gown and a monk's cowl forever as her shadow."

They were outside the window of Keith Bryton, and the words reached the ears of the man on the bed there, and brought him reeling but determined to his feet.

It was the first word reaching him by which he could grasp at the reality of the life about him; all the vague dreams were dashed aside by that name, "Raquel Estevan de Arteaga." It cleared the visions of the fever his nurse had feared to dispel too quickly, and in one staggering flash he saw the truth: the "dream" of the California life was no dream, it was the real life to be met and fought again. Where was he, that the voice of Rafael Arteaga dared ring with such imperious directions? He reached the barred window dizzily and leaned his head against the high ledge. The world whirled about him for a moment, and when it stopped and stood still, he again heard the voice of Rafael, irritated this time into more intolerant speech by some eager protest of Ana.

"Oh, ho! That is the man, is it? And he saved her from Juan Flores that night? That is news—God curse him!"

"Rafael!" and the woman's voice was full of horror. "You are crazy with brandy; you do not know how you speak. Go to your bed and sleep. That man saved your name and your wife from disgrace, and you have only curses for him in your mouth!"

"Basta! He may win seven heavens for aught I care. But, name of God! sing no praises of him for saving Raquel Estevan for me! She is not a woman, Anita! Never a woman for a man who wants a wife. By God, I think she is the devil turned saint; and the man who carries her to the hills is my friend and earns a herd of horses!"

"Santa Maria! You are mad over that other woman, Rafael Arteaga. Every one sees it but Raquel; and when she does see it—"

"She! she sees nothing but her saints on the altar! She has only the heart of a nun in that white breast of hers. Don't you put your devil of a tongue in this business, Ana Mendez, or—"

"You are drunk, Rafael," said Ana, untouched by the personal remark. "You are drunk. Go to bed."

No other words came to the ears of Keith Bryton. He heard the departing steps, and the rustle of Ana's silken gown on the tiling, and then someway he found himself back in the bed, with all the cobwebs cleared from his brain. He knew where he was now—in a room of the Mission, where he had not dared set a foot since the day when he heard her vow made to the dying woman. He was in her home, then, the home of her husband. And that silent padre who had shielded him from knowing it—what did his devoted guardianship mean? What did it mean that he had approved that once she had come there and stood by the bed with her hands in his? That she had listened to his words, and—— Or was that also a fancy born of the fever?

But when the silent padre came in and closed the door, and heard the direct rapid questions, the replies were just as direct. Padre Libertad observed that the shock of the truth had come, and there was no reason for further illusion. The American was weak, but alert to all the padre told him; and he told him all the truth.

"So you see, SeÑor Bryton, you saved my life, and there is a good price set against it. I am here in the home of my cousin, who will make a fiesta of the day I am hung or shot. You know it, and the girl I love knows it. It has been a good place to hide: they think me in Mexico. I start there to-night, unless you—"

"Wait: to-morrow I can perhaps go with you. God! To think I have been helpless here in his home!"

The other man said nothing, only watched him with the dark velvety eyes full now of the spirit of comradeship.

"It is strange it should be you I trust," he said, at last. "I remember days when I planned which way I would have you killed when my men found you. You saved the government their horses last year. I shot at you once as you rode from Santa Ana ranch."

"Was that you?" observed the other. "Yes, I remember." Then, after another silence, he asked with careful indifference:

"DoÑa Raquel Arteaga—she was in here, and I said things I—well—you heard! Does she know the truth about you?"

"Not even does she suspect. No one here has ever seen me since this beard is over my face. I pass the men on the plaza who hunted me with hounds and guns to the water's edge a year ago, and they bow their heads and lower their voices not to disturb my devotions. Madre de Dios! it has been great sport, but for the thought of—of a woman whose heart has been shown to me as a priest! The thing I have done is a sacrilege, and Father Andros would scorch me well for it—but I would rather burn than have her ever know the truth—I who am the lover of another woman!"

Keith Bryton reached out his hand to the outlaw, and there were no more words spoken between them of the matter.

Later DoÑa Angela returned, and hearing from Ana that Bryton was again conscious of his whereabouts, insisted on seeing him; and this time the silent padre of the prayers offered no protest, only sat in the window-seat, and did not lift his eyes, and listened.

"I've been wild—just that, Keith, ever since they brought you back. Who? oh, DoÑa Raquel and Ana, and, of course, the padre. My! You looked awful. I'm glad you are better. There is to be a really great Spanish dance, and I should have hated to go unless you were out of danger. They would not allow me inside this door before, and I—Keith, there are a thousand things I want to say to you, and—" The priest arose and made a quiet movement toward the door. The interview was evidently terminated. Keith had not had a chance to say anything, and DoÑa Angela whisked out of the room in a temper. She sought Rafael, but could not find him, for the reason that he had taken Ana's advice and tumbled into bed. She finally found Ana and Raquel in the dining-room, and smiled tolerantly at the fact that the latter, covered with a great apron of linen, was attending personally to the moulding of candles, and not a servant, not even Ana, was allowed to help.

The days of DoÑa Angela's stay had brought her face to face with many self-satisfying little scenes of that sort. Remembering that first meeting of the two as strangers, it was comforting to Angela to be able to look down in some way on the wife of Rafael Arteaga; and since she chose to make of herself a servant—— It seemed so incredible to the woman who had never, never, had all she wanted of luxury, that this other girl, young, and many said handsome, had not the natural woman's vanity for decking herself with the gorgeous things stacked in those old chests. To her it seemed a warrant to Rafael to seek companionship elsewhere. A woman who could claim a throne lessened her value by stooping to the cares of the kitchen. It argued low tastes; it emphasized the uneven division of things. It was a constant reminder to Angela Bryton that she, the woman who appreciated it all, who would have held a half-regal Court of Love in the old walls where only endless prayers were whispered,—she was the woman to whom it should belong by right. For her, Rafael Arteaga would have spread carpets of velvet on the tiled floors and cast himself, happy, at her feet.

All these thoughts had given her a sort of insolent courage to comment on the girl who trod the Mission-made bricks, and whose eyes looked out so often over one's head.

"Of all the Indian servants, have you none trained in so laborious a task as this?" she asked, sinking into one of the rawhide-seated chairs at the table. "It is horrid work. I wonder you spoil your hands."

Ana flashed a glance of resentment at the languid blossom of a woman, always a shimmer of lacy ruffles, a picture of alluring, half-childish helplessness. It was for such a white kitten Rafael was losing all his sense.

"I should be proud to use my hands for the same work, instead of this endless embroidery," she observed; "but DoÑa Raquel will not hear of it."

"To mould the candles for the altar, each woman of each house should make her own," returned Raquel, quietly. "You have not that custom in your land—no?"

"Certainly not. We are not taught that extra pounds of beef tallow will help to save our souls if burned in silver holders."

"No? What, then, does it take to save souls in your country?"

"Those who come here leave their souls at home for safe-keeping," declared Ana, thrusting her needle viciously into the embroideries of lawn; "they only bring their long purses to be filled."

For one moment the snapping black eyes of Ana met the childish blue ones of Angela and carried in their glance an accusation and understanding. Angela's pretty teeth closed with a vicious click under her red lips, then she shrugged her dimpled shoulders, and laughed.

"Oh, you see of course only the merchants here," she conceded, "the people who buy hides, and tallow, and herds of horses."

Then she turned again to Raquel, who had seen some of the little byplay.

"And those candles of purest white, packed in scented cotton, for what especial purpose are they reserved?"

"They are the candles for the dead."

Angela shuddered, as with a passing chill.

"How constantly you people keep before you remembrance of the tomb!" she exclaimed. "One needs to get out in the sun often to remember that the old Mission is not really a vault."

"It is," said Ana; "there are padres of the old days buried under some of the floors."

"How perfectly horrid! And you make all those dozens of immaculate candles to be used for whoever comes first," she continued, addressing herself to Raquel, with a slight smile of disdain as at a childish pastime; "and they are all duly blessed, I suppose, and duly insured to light the souls from the path of the inferno."

For the first time Raquel perceived the touch of malice under the smiling query.

"You are right," she said, quietly; "those are of the first I ever made with my own hands here in San Juan Capistrano. Padre Sanchez bestowed on them his blessing, and the thought of so holy a man is in itself a blessing."

"But think," persisted the soft little malicious tones, "is it not often the story of the pearls and the swine? Any sodden drunken Indian beast is likely to be laid in state with those emblems of purity burning in his honor."

Raquel paused with the last handful of them, and the violet eyes, dark with indignation, met the blue ones. "That is true," she said, coldly. "We are taught that souls are all alike before God. These in my hand may be lit for any one—for a sodden beast that dies in sin, for a murderer, for me perhaps, or it may be they burn even for you, seÑora!"

"Ugh! how ghastly!" The blue eyes wavered, and she arose with a little shiver. "But I don't think I would want them, really," she added, as she was leaving the room, "any more than I would want masses said if I should go under a breaker some day when bathing, and never come up again. The fashion of the living praying for the dead seems a bit incongruous and amusing. Save the candles for those of the faith, DoÑa Raquel."

Her little mocking laugh made more pointed her intention of ridicule. The face of Raquel was still and expressionless, as she slowly placed the last of the candles in the perfumed box and closed the lid. Ana flung down her embroidery, and said to Raquel, with blazing eyes:

"Raquelita! Some day I shall choke that pretty little white devil, you will see! How and why we endure her mocking I don't know. That she is of Keith Bryton's family is something, but it is not enough. When he is able I shall tell him some things—I shall tell Don Eduardo things! She makes a mock of our women, and I keep quiet; she makes her love to your husband, and I say nothing; but, Raquel, she makes mockery of your religion in your own house. Can you stand that too?"

Raquel put her hands over her eyes an instant in a tired way.

"Quiet, you, Anita mia," she said after a little. "Words are not so much use. They will go away soon now—after the dance to-morrow night. And I do not think it is true of Rafael. He is her caballero, as he would be yours or Juanita's; that is all. There is that other woman in the willows. She—"

"Raquelita, how little you know men! Pretty Marta by the river is only a servant; but our men go mad for these white women of blue eyes—mad!"

"A few days more, and that will be forgotten as he would forget the brown girls. Have patience. At least, she will not mock our religion to him; and the rest—it is only one day and two nights more, Anita, and you will help me."

"At least you will find a way to keep those pearls from her," insisted Ana, stubbornly. "How could you offer them to her? Oh, I could have screamed at you!"

"The pearls are but a trifle to let go for a night, dear. Help me with the candles to the altar-place. Oh, yes, she may have the pearls."