“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.