"Surely; a rosary is easy. Why do you look so frightened? Your Americano will not eat me."
"What does that matter? At least, he says no harm of a man behind his back, and it is true what he says of the politicians. Oh, if he keeps up the compliments, who knows but that we may be good friends yet—after he has paid for the horses he took north? Chut!—that is only jest! Smile a little and help to corral the Indians."
Bryton, with Juanita beside him, had sauntered again to the veranda. Passing the door of the hall, he noticed Polonia still crouched there, and Juanita shuddered and drew away.
"I am always frightened at her," she confessed; "not alone would I go in a room where she is at dark for all the gold they say there is in Trabuco Mountain. It is not so strange to me that the poor creatures were afraid and thought her a witch. If you had heard the Doña Raquel all last night, you also would have thought only witchcraft could make her so suddenly fall sick with a heart-ache for a ring that would save her, and a temple where a sacrifice was. Truly, it was pitiful—her cries. I pulled the pillow over my ears. Only Ana was brave enough to stay close to her,—Ana and the old mummy."
"And Doña Ana—she thought what of it all—the madness—the—"
"Oh, Ana has no love for Rafael; she blames him in some way; and it may be that he does make trouble for his wife—he would not be an Arteaga else. But she never mentioned his name in all her cries, never once. She called always—always for the ring, and laughed that some one who wore the ring was again alive. Oh, it was all of queer crazy things like that—ghostly things—she made laments for. It was like purgatory to hear her, yet Ana was not afraid. She has courage, that girl!"
"She is asleep now?" he asked, suddenly.
"Who—Ana? why—"
"No, no, I mean Doña—I mean the sick lady. She is better—or—how?"