"You want it very much," she said; "but why? You do not care at all for Dona Maria's personal peace with the bishop. That can be arranged without a picnic to the hills. It only needs that they give back, of their own free will, that which belongs to the Church, and make a confession that it was wrongly held." "If you would only talk to her of this graciously, instead of demanding it," persisted Rafael, gently, "much could be effected. Dona Angela thinks for certain--" "Dona Angela?" "Oh, I mean her--the relative who is with her now--the Mrs. Bryton who drove with her yesterday. The bishop asked who she was--you remember?" "I remember," she said, quietly, though a little shudder touched her. "But I am tired of this town, Rafael. I meant to tell you so this morning. I want to ride home to-day. Dona Maria's merry-makings do not attract me. Our business here is over; let us go." "Holy God! but you are a wife for a man!" he cried in sudden fury. "I weigh you down with jewels and silks and laces, and you would bury them all with yourself in that old rat-hole of a Mission. I wish to God the padre and Dona Maria had blown down every brick of it before you saw the accursed place!" "Accursed? The Church of God? Rafael!" "Ay, accursed, since you will know!" he repeated. "Every old Indian of San Juan can tell you that." "Some Indian, perhaps, who has had to be whipped by the padres," she remarked, with quiet scorn. "You don't believe me?" he cried. "Well, you shall! Sit down--sit down and listen for once, and you will be glad to keep out of the curse-haunted place." She regarded him with a little tolerant smile, and drew a serape of blue around her, and curled herself on the foot of the bed and waited. "It is early for stories," she observed; "but since it is your pleasure--" "Not any pleasure has any of it been to me from first to last," he retorted, "nor any pleasure will it be to whoever holds it! You think you are strong, your saints will help you! But no saint ever put on an altar--not even that of the Virgin herself--can take off the curse from San Juan till the altar is bathed in human blood, as the tiles of the floor have been bathed--that is the curse of Sahirit." She stared at him with wide eyes and blanching face. "Until the altar is bathed in human blood, as the tiles of the floor have been," she whispered. "Rafael! That--that is of a religion older than the life of Christianity in Mexico. God of Gods! Does it follow me here?" "Follow _you_!" and he laughed contemptuously; "it is a story older than our grandfathers. Only the old Indians whisper it now each time ill luck comes to any of us--and I've had enough! When they picked up Miguel tramped into the earth by the cattle, only the white men would help--no Indian; they knew it was the curse coming true." "Tell me," she said, briefly. Her lips were white, and she shuddered with cold, and drew the serape close.