"Doña Angela?"
"Oh, I mean her—the relative who is with her now—the Mrs. Bryton who drove with her yesterday. The bishop asked who she was—you remember?"
"I remember," she said, quietly, though a little shudder touched her. "But I am tired of this town, Rafael. I meant to tell you so this morning. I want to ride home to-day. Doña Maria's merry-makings do not attract me. Our business here is over; let us go."
"Holy God! but you are a wife for a man!" he cried in sudden fury. "I weigh you down with jewels and silks and laces, and you would bury them all with yourself in that old rat-hole of a Mission. I wish to God the padre and Doña Maria had blown down every brick of it before you saw the accursed place!"
"Accursed? The Church of God? Rafael!"
"Ay, accursed, since you will know!" he repeated. "Every old Indian of San Juan can tell you that."
"Some Indian, perhaps, who has had to be whipped by the padres," she remarked, with quiet scorn.
"You don't believe me?" he cried. "Well, you shall! Sit down—sit down and listen for once, and you will be glad to keep out of the curse-haunted place."
She regarded him with a little tolerant smile, and drew a serape of blue around her, and curled herself on the foot of the bed and waited.
"It is early for stories," she observed; "but since it is your pleasure—"