"Raquel, it is no use! I must tell you before we start. The man I go to see is the friend of a heretic whom you bar out from your knowledge. The message sent me is written on a letter of Bryton's. You heard them say Señor Bryton cannot be found; and there is a chance—only a chance—that he may be in the mountain where we are going."
Raquel stared at her, and did not speak. In the flickering light Ana could see that her eyes grew large—with dread, or anger, or what? Even her lips grew pale, and she almost seemed to sway in the saddle.
"Raquelita mia, I was wrong, I know it was wrong to bring you; but oh, my beloved—"
"You—did not know—he—was here?"
"I did not think. The devil put mud where my brain should be! It is only when we are on the road it commences to trouble me; and now your words—your—Oh, I know that of all women in California, you hate the heretics most; and now it is I who—"
"Tell me what the letter says," interrupted Raquel, who now sat erect in the saddle, rigid and white. "You said your friend was hurt and—"
"Some one is hurt; I do not know who. You can read the letter if you bend down here. Who knows? It may be his American friend."
"Mother mia! It may be, it may be!"
She covered her face with her hands, and Ana, looking at her, thought she was praying for strength to remember humanity ahead of the creeds. At last she spoke.
"Anita mia, never feel so badly about it. We did not plan this, you and I, but it happens—it happens! There is only one straight thing to do: I can ride back to San Juan when you learn the truth. If it is the Americano, the word shall go to his wife quickly. I need not see the man, but I can carry a message, and I will; God helping me to the strength, I will!"