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 As Don Anabel’s hand was withdrawn from his son’s shoulder a crimson stain showed faintly where it had rested.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.