"Ay, I am proud of thee, my Santiago! Thou knowest more than any boy in
California—I know."
"Perhaps that would not be much," with fine scorn. "But come, Elena mia, I must go to my mother; she is waiting. She looks as stern as ever; but how I have longed to see her!"
They ran to the house, passing the stranger, who had watched them with folded arms and scowling brows. Santiago rushed impetuously at his mother; but she put out her arm, stiff and straight, and held him back. Then she laid her hand, with its vice-like grip, on his shoulder, and led him down the sala to the chapel at the end. It was arranged for the wedding, with all the pomp of velvet altar-cloth and golden candelabra. He looked at it wonderingly. Why had she brought him to look upon this before giving him a mother's greeting?
"Kneel down," she said, "and repeat the prayers of thy Church—prayers of gratitude for thy safe return."
The boy folded his hands deprecatingly.
"But, mother, remember it is seven long years since I have said the Catholic prayers. Remember I have been educated in an English college, in a Protestant country."
Her tall form curved slowly toward him, the blood blazed in her dark cheeks.
"What!" she screamed incredulously. "Thou hast forgotten the prayers of thy Church—the prayers thou learned at my knee?"
"Yes, mother, I have," he said desperately. "I cannot—"
"God! God! Mother of God! My son says this to me!" She caught him by the shoulder again and almost hurled him from the room. Then she locked her hand about his arm and dragged him down the sala to his father's room. She took a greenhide reata from the table and brought it down upon his back with long sweeps of her powerful arm, but not another word came from her rigid lips. The boy quivered with the shame and pain, but made no resistance—for he was a Californian, and she was his mother.