"There are clouds again. It could rain." "It looks only threatening." "A wet trail won't help," she said sleepily. "We've got sure-footed horses," he said. "I climbed near here with my father, during the dry season. We saw the ocean from the rim ... such a clear day," she said. "We used to cut wood below here. There's a first-rate stand of pine a few thousand feet down." The fire sputtered and jets of steam puffed. She felt the warmth penetrating her serape, and was grateful. Her hand found his face. His hand found her breast. "It's nice to wake up like this." "Alfredo used to climb mountains. You know Alfredo Villaseñor? What happened to Alfredo? He was a likable fellow. Your father wanted you to marry him." "He went to Europe ... and I don't know what became of him." "Did you like him?" "Very much ... for a while." He had a faded picture of Villaseñor, mountaineer, Spanish, freckle-faced, well dressed, demanding. "I'm the sort who runs away to the mountains, takes his own woman, a sorry Catholic, Lucienne. I've been thinking of my lapses. I profess one thing and do another." His seriousness woke her a little and she said, emphatically, "There's such a thing as tolerance--the scripture teaches that." "Not license." "Love sanctifies things." "Then will the Church accept us?" "Accept me?" she said, making it a pointed question. "I won't accept the Church. Hush, hush, Raul, it's time to sleep. Think where we are, up here, at the top of things...." "Are you warm?" he asked. "Very warm. Let me sleep on your arm." "Tomorrow we have a long ride," he said. In a matter of seconds, she fell asleep, breathing gently, her arms around him. He turned thoughts over in his head while listening to a wolf howl, high on the cliff above. How ridiculous to ask: Will the Church accept us? As if Angelina no longer had anything to do with my life. Yet, as he lay there, staring at the gathering clouds, he felt she had less and less to do with his life. Guadalajara would claim her, the parties, friends, theater--Estelle Milan. It was drizzling when they awoke. They had breakfast around the campfire, the horses tethered nearby, ready for departure. As they began the slow descent, the drizzle changed to rain, chilly, at times falling fast. To reach the regular trail, they filed through a forest of scrub oak. Shale made the going tricky, but the rocky area did not last long. Once on the main trail, they quickened their pace and then--like a great swab--mist puffed over them and swallowed trees and boulders. Because of the mist, Raul had trouble with Chico. Somewhere below nine thousand feet they crossed a number of small cornfields, mist along their edges. "I wouldn't want to live up this high," said Raul.