"Don't be worried, Raul. Perhaps the craving for freedom is not so widespread as you think." Raul sighed. Angelina never grasped hacienda problems; she cared little at heart about any serious matters. Something seemed to shut her off. She had never loved Petaca, never known what it was to feel the bite of wind, the power of seeds sprouting, the rasp of the mill wheel, or the breadth of sky. Somewhere in the garden a mockingbird burst into song, evoking its Toltec past. The outburst lasted half a minute and then the lowing of cattle followed and then silence settled over the place. Raul drew away from the wall and at Angelina's suggestion they walked together, following a path to the upper terrace. Leaves glistened in the moonlight. A frog chugged into the nearby swimming pool. The path led under a rose arbor, to a sandstone figure of Christ, a seventeenth century carving, carefully, deeply chiseled, suspended on a huge granite block twisted with stone leaves. The cross marked a curve in the path where ribs of light pushed at vine shadows, and sliced the upper part of the life-sized figure, making the calm face seem awake. Angelina crossed herself before the statue. As they walked, Raul noticed her profile, appreciating its perfection; for a moment, it was as if he were strolling with her years before, a few days after their wedding. She had worn another simple white dress then. Those June days had been free of emotional conflict, threat of trouble, and hatred of father for son. Or so it seemed now, looking back. "It's nice that Caterina's feeling better," Angelina said. "Yes, it is nice," Raul said, hoping their daughter would continue to improve. "I still wonder what made her so ill in Guadalajara. I think I did the right thing to bring her here; goodness knows she wanted to come. It takes so much care to bring a child around," she said with peculiar warmth. "It's a month till school starts; she'll be fine by then," Raul said. "Of course she will," Angelina agreed. It seemed to her that without their two children she would have fled years before to any city, any place where there were people, theaters, entertainment. Here, at the hacienda, children were the best of life. She had wanted more, until Lucienne had changed her mind. She tried to shake Lucienne from her thoughts--the beautiful auburn hair and smiling face. She felt the loneliness of this garden and its volcanic shadow. A gleam of the broad lagoon--moon whitened--chilled her. Guadalajara had companionship to offer, relatives, friends, lights in shop windows, lights in homes, pretty parks. "Is Chico better?" she asked, righting for a better mood. "Yes, his leg's better. He'll be all right." Though Chico was his favorite horse, she said, in spite of herself: "I wish he had broken his leg." He laughed, thinking of the fine palomino he had raised with such care. "You'll have to try him someday," he said.