"There, in the shade of nature, the greater shadow of death hovering near, was the betrothal agreement made. The Indian riflemen stood around, sombreros in hand, their weapons lying on the turf, to do homage to death, the final conqueror. Señor Mendoza still held in his arms the clay of his friend, still his tears were falling. 'The Peralta and Mendoza friendship shall live on in our children,' he said in broken voice. 'The living and the dead make this consecration.'" Morando's horse reared to perpendicular line. Unconsciously the Captain had gripped him with the spurs. The animal sprang from the beaten road through dense masses of underbrush, to the grassy field beyond. It required several minutes before Morando could bring the creature back to the señora's side. It still champed the bit, while its eyes flashed from the sting of the insult. "Your horse is restive, señor soldier. Perhaps we have loitered along the way. Come, we can reach the Calderon home before the sun is warm." They cantered in silence for a while. "Let us go slowly for a few minutes," she said. "I find I am not so strong as I thought." Paleness was again creeping into her face. Morando quickly led her horse by the bridle to the door of a peon's cot near the wayside, and assisted her to dismount. The Indian wife came curtsying out, full of welcome. "My house is yours," she insisted, bowing again and again. "Your visit will be long remembered. I am sorry my man is away and cannot help to receive you." "Some warm water in a basin," said the soldier. "The señora has had an accident to her arm and it needs attention." Morando unbandaged the arm, bathed it in tepid water, and rebandaged it more loosely. The house was a one-room building, made of adobe, whitewashed outside and inside, with a red tile roof. The floor was earthen. A half dozen children tumbled about. The Indian woman sat on a rude settee and looked interestedly at the two occupying a similar piece of furniture. "My man is absent in San Joaquin," she said. "He is a vaquero for Señor Higuera. We expect the cattle soon to return, and again I will have my husband." The señora was charmed with the naïveté of the native. "I'm sure you will be happy then," she said. Color had returned to her cheeks and brightness to her eyes. "Great people need never be separated," the peona went on. "Now," speaking directly to Señora Valentino, "you had your husband with you when sickness met you, and he drove it away. For me, two, three, moons," counting on her fingers, "I have fought it alone for myself and my pocos niños," pointing to her brood. The señora smiled. "This señor is not my husband." The woman looked intently at them. "The spirits of the future speak little here since Padre Lusciano came. He drives them away with the breath of his mouth. Dared they speak--dared they speak"--she laughed quizzically--"they would say--they would say----"