The dawn was near. All the night she had walked in her room alone, stunned and wordless over this thing she could not fight, or reason, or pray away; and now, having heard it all,—even of his calls for her when unconscious,—she had let fall for the first time the cold mask she had worn since the death of Doña Luisa, and since the significance of her vow had been revealed to her by the days and nights of Rafael's life.
She wept in a wild abandonment of grief at the hopeless vista of years reaching on to the edge of the world where death is. It had all been dreary enough before; but now—
When the birds began their welcome of the day she was still lying prone, but silent. The tempest of feeling had passed, and her Indian woman stroked her hair softly, and waited, and did not speak. At last she rose, and looked out on the yellowing light touching the purple of the mountains.
"This is only a dream of the night, Polonia," she said, with a great sigh; "sleep again, and forget it all."
But the old woman clung with trembling hands to the folds of the girl's gown, and rested her cheek on the silken slippers.
"And the curse, darling? what of the curse of the lie?"
"Curses come home to the people who utter them," said the girl, drearily. "On my head they all lie—the curse by which I was made blind for a little, little while of life, and which now allows me to see when it is too late. The curse of God has followed our people; no blessing of the Church can wipe it out."
"The sin that is for love is not so black a sin, and it was your love the padre trusted to—your fear that I was bewitched and lost. But it is all over; we are in a new land, and this is a new life."
"And—he is happy—without thee?"