"Tell him, Doña Espiritu," said the man with the book. Then he gave her a glance of warning and touched his temple significantly. She crossed the room and placed the water beside him.
"What shall I tell you, Don Keith?" she asked, softly. "I am sorry you have been so ill and the bad dreams have come. This is Padre Libertad; he has nursed you very well. We must all obey him and let you sleep."
"But not to dream again," he protested. "Be kind, as you were in the hills of the temple,—give me your hand again,—then I will sleep without the hell of dreams."
At the command of the padre, she obeyed, and he took her one hand in both of his and drew it across his lips. A shudder passed over her at his touch, and she rested her other hand against the whitewashed wall for support.
"Courage, my daughter," said the man with the book, gently; and the man on the bed looked at him and smiled.
"Courage?" he said. "You should have seen her when she faced that mob of Indians and saved us. We had not meant to spy on their ceremonies, and we paid dearly for getting lost in the wilderness. Still, it was worth it, Doña mia! It was worth going through it all, even the hell of dreams, to find you again like this, and your hand in mine."
She did not speak, only turned imploring eyes on the padre.
"You need not mind him," continued Bryton. "I like him better than the old padre, and he shall marry us when I come back. Now I can go to sleep."
He held her hand in his, and when she tried to draw it away, he smiled with closed eyes, and whispered, "You remember how we watched all the stars cross the sky? And then the morning star, the star of the Holy Spirit, that was yours, Doña mia; and then—then—you remember all—all of our one night?"