"I have seen his wife; people call her beautiful. I saw him almost touching her, yet I did not scream."
"Mother of God! his wife!"
"I heard her name,—it was enough. His I did not need to ask; I remembered."
"But—dear one—it is better that he is married. Pardon, beloved—I am at thy feet, and I feel thy heartache. But, after all, is it not to thank the saints that he is married?"
"Perhaps. Otherwise, he might say to me some day, 'Come!' And the witchcraft of the ring might hold, and—"
"Holy Mother! and then—"
"And I—God knows what I might do, Polonia."
And then the old Indian woman was left alone, mumbling prayers and crossing herself.
Later she got up and went to the priest of Our Lady of the Angels and brought a bottle of holy water to sprinkle on the threshold of the street door, and all sides of Doña Raquel's room, that no curse of witchcraft or bad dream of the night might have power over the days.
It was broad daylight when Rafael came home whistling gayly a dance of melody. He had been gifted with unusual good luck, and his pockets were full of gold pieces. He threw a buckskin sack of coin on his wife's bed before he noticed that she was not lying there.