"Like--like nothing but himself, senorita. You would not have him otherwise." "Oh, stupid one! Hast thou no imagination? Fancy any man being well enough as he is! For instance, there is Don Antonio, who is so handsome and fiery, and Don Ignacio, who can sing and dance and ride as no one else in all the Californias, and Don Weeliam Sturgis, who is very clever and true. If I could roll them into one--a tamale of corn and chicken and peppers--there would be a man almost to my liking. But even then--not quite. And one man--what nonsense! I have too much color to-night, Rosa." "No, senorita, you have never been so beautiful. When the lover comes and you love him, senorita, you will think him greater than our natural king and lord, and all other men poor Indians." "But how shall I know?" "Your heart will tell you, senorita." "My heart? My father and my mother will choose for me a husband whom I shall love as all other women love their husbands--just enough and no more. Then--I suppose--I shall never know?" "Would you marry at your parents' bidding, like a child, senorita? I do not think you would." Concha looked at the girl in astonishment, but with a greater astonishment she suddenly realized that she would not. Even her little fingers stiffened in a rush of personality, of passionate resentment against the shackles bound by the ages about the feminine ego. Her individuality, long budding, burst into flower; her eyes gazed far beyond her radiant image in the mirror with a look of terrified but dauntless insight; then moved slowly to the girl that sat weeping on the floor. "I know not what thy sin was," she said musingly. "But I have heard it said thou didst obey no law but thine own will--and his. Why should the punishment have been so terrible? Thou hast sworn to me thou didst not help to murder the woman." "I cannot tell you, senorita. You will never know anything of sin; but of love--yes, I think you will know that, and before very long." "Before long?" Concha's lips parted and the nervous color she had deprecated left her cheeks. "What meanest thou, Rosa?" Her voice rose hoarsely. And the Indian, with the insight of her own tragedy, replied: "The Russian has come for you, senorita. You will go with him, far away to the north and the snow. These others never could win your heart; but this man who looks like a king, and as if many women had loved him, and he had cared little-- Oh, senorita, Carlos was only a poor Indian, but the men that women love all have something that makes them brothers--the Great Russian and the poor man who goes mad for a moment and kills one woman that he may live with another forever. The great Russian is free, but he is the same, senorita--he too could kill for love, and such are the men we women die for!"