"Oh, you need not rail at me, Dona Ana," protested Victorio; "I am only one--and I feed my children! You do not believe so much in Rafael Arteaga yourself; and, after all, it may come right. It depends most on the woman." "Dona Raquel Arteaga?" "Never! She is only a wife; it is the other who is still _the_ woman." Ana flung an angry look at the pessimistic, philosophic vaquero, and followed Raquel, slamming the door after her to emphasize her impatience with his all-too-true statements. She checked her tempestuous entrance at sight of the wife they were discussing, kneeling at the little altar in the corner of her own room. The tall candles were lit, and before the shrine of the Virgin Raquel was prostrate. Ana crossed herself and went out softly, half afraid that the argument in the corridor had been heard through the thick adobe walls. This new sign of Raquel's disfavor at every mention of the Americanos gave Ana several unpleasant moments. The letter now in her pocket had belonged to the Americano whom they were coming to search for: dare she mention it to the girl kneeling there at the shrine? Or did not the news brought by Victorio Lopez make more imperative the need for secrecy? In riding the hills for Bryton, what others hidden there might be discovered for death? Ana sent an Indian with a pack-mule of provisions to the sheep-herders' cabin in Trabuco canyon, with instructions to wait there until the men came for it, and in every way made smooth the details for the journey of the night. Don Antonio, the major-domo for the Arteagas, had ridden north with the vigilantes, so there was no one to oppose or question the order of Ana, given in the name of Dona Raquel. Teresa shrugged her shoulders and said some things when the two mounted and rode gaily northward. She hoped Dona Refugia would say some things to them for the good of their souls when they reached the ranch. Ana had always been a little rebel; it was well they married her when they did! No one gave much heed to Ana's vagaries or strange whims, but with Raquel it was different. The opinions of Dona Luisa concerning the convent novice secured as a daughter were well known in the San Juan valley: she was a saint, no less. But Teresa watched the slender girlish form riding away on the black horse, and hated the grace and daring of her as only gross creatures can hate refined ones, and had her own ideas of two women who were young, riding like that toward darkness,--the darkness where even men scarcely dared ride alone these days. One might be saintly in soul, yet do indiscreet things in this mundane world. And Teresa wished them a lesson, from the centre of her fat heart. [Music: _Mi Memoria._] Mi memoria en ti se ocupa No te olvida un solo instante, Y mi mente delirante En ti piensa, en ti piensa sin cesar. [Music] CHAPTER XVI