"Truly."
"What is the matter with those women?"
A group of old women stood by the roadside. Their forms were bent, their brown faces gnarled like apples. Some were a shapeless mass of fat, others were parchment and bone; about the head and shoulders of each was a thick black shawl. Near them stood a number of young girls clad in muslin petticoats, flowered with purple and scarlet. Bright satin shoes were on their feet, cotton rebosas covered their pretty, pert little heads. All were looking in one direction, whispering and crossing themselves.
Doña Eustaquia glanced over her shoulder, then leaned heavily on
Brotherton's arm.
"It is Benicia," she said. "It is because she was cursed and is with child that they cross themselves."
Brotherton held her arm closely and laid his hand on hers, but he spoke sternly.
"The curse is not likely to do her any harm. You prayed that she should die when happiest, and you have done your best to make her wretched."
She did not reply, and they walked slowly onward. Benicia followed, leaning on the arm of an Indian servant. Her friends avoided her, for they bitterly resented Altimira's death. But she gave them little regret. Since her husband could not be with her on this Christmas eve, she wished only for reconciliation with her mother. In spite of the crowd she followed close behind Doña Eustaquia and Brotherton, holding her head proudly, but ready to fall at the feet of the woman she worshipped.
"My friend," said Doña Eustaquia, after a moment, "perhaps it is best that I do not forgive her. Were she happy, then might the curse come true."
"She has enough else to make her unhappy. Besides, who ever heard of a curse coming true? It has worked its will already for the matter of that. You kept your child from happiness with her husband during the brief time she had him. The bitterness of death is a small matter beside the bitterness of life. You should be satisfied."