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. CHAPTER XII SILVER CARAVANS Juan and Steven stood upon a desolate hillside, and from behind the stunted cedar and pines looked down upon a strange scene. Juan had ridden somewhat out of the way on the trail to Taos, and had led Señor Estevan up to this mount from which he could see in a small valley below them a group of people clustering about a small adobe building. “Look!” pointed Juan. “Listen! It is the _pito_ (the flute).” On the cold clear air a thin, sweet, flute-like piping arose to them. A little man down in the valley emerged from the house, carrying a book, which he held open before him, and from which he read aloud as he walked along. He was followed by one who played the flute, and behind him came a small procession, not more than five or six men, who wore masks, but who were bare to the waist, wearing nothing but white trunks. The men were striking themselves rhythmically across their backs with great whips, which were wetted from time to time in a bucket of brine carried alongside by another man. In a moment blood began to flow down their backs and the cotton trunks turned red. Steven looked away, shuddering, but in a low voice Juan once more called his attention to the religious ceremony below them. “Señor, but look, Señor!”