"Oh, for God's sake, Caterina--for God's sake--" stammered Andrew, excruciated beyond his strength, "Can't we get away from this house--tonight--in the rain--they can't hear us in the rain--there are horses in the stable--we'll ride to St. Augustine--tell the governor--he'll help us--my father's rich--we'll take Sebastian, too--Oh, come, Caterina, come--" He was pulling at her hands. She clenched her teeth, and he realized that he had hurt her. "How can I ride, with my hands?" she said, helplessly. "I'll tie you to the saddle--you can ride pillion behind Sebastian or me--you must, Caterina--you must--we can't stay here any more--" He was pleading with her now, as if for some salvation of spirit that lay hidden between her hands like a coral amulet. Her face was serene as she listened. She made a little gesture. "Wait," she said, and rose from the bed. When she was on her feet she swayed for an instant. "Ah, Dios," she said, under her breath. Andrew offered her his shoulder, but she put him aside and walked slowly over to the other end of the room. There was a little shrine there--a cheap, plaster image of the Virgin. Her robes had been gaudily colored in staring blues and reds but they were mildewed now and the colors were faint and gentle. A tiny wick burned in a small cup of rancid oil at her feet. Caterina sank to her knees. "_Madre de Dios_--Mary Virgin--Tower of Ivory--House of Gold--" she began, in Mahonese, in a soft, lulling voice. Andrew watched her perplexedly from the bed. The scene touched him with pity and grief, but it was something he could not understand. He would have been glad enough to kneel beside Caterina himself and pray, if he had thought it would bring her any comfort, but there was something in the absorption of her eyes, as she gazed at the tawdry little doll with a tarnished crown, that made her incomprehensible. It belonged, with the flower of the Spanish bayonet, to an earth that was not his--an earth in which he would always be a stranger. And yet, as the mutter of the prayer went on, he knew that he did not wish to be a stranger to that alien, enchanted ground. When Caterina had finished, and crossed herself, with head bowed, she came back to him. "Yes. I will come," she said. Their eyes met--for an instant he seemed to see behind hers, into her heart. There was a message there, clear and pure as if air had written it on a tablet of mountain-snow, but a message he could not read, for it was written in her language, and to him the characters of that language were mysterious as marks carved upon a druid stone. He stared for an instant, vainly--hoping for a Pentecost that did not descend. Then the veil fell between them again.