"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——"
She broke off and motioned to the third finger of the señora's left hand, and simulated placing a ring thereon. She turned to Morando and laughed again.