He smiled with his eyes still closed, and released her hand, and did not see her as she swayed toward the door and was caught in the strong arms of the man she called Padre Libertad. When she knew where she was again, she found her face and hair wet with cold water, and all the women about with cordials and cures.
"It is a fever; she will get it next," prophesied Doña Maria. "A woman who neither eats nor sleeps gets ready for the graveyard."
But Raquel waved aside all their cures and sent for Padre Libertad.
"You broke your vow of silence there just now for him," she said, abruptly. "Break it now for me. You know?"
"God help you, Raquel Estevan! I know. No one else ever shall, and whatever you want done shall be done."
"God help me, indeed!" Raquel moaned. "To the soul of Rafael I am bound all the days of my life. I want nothing done. I dare want nothing."
Raquel went no more into the room where Keith Bryton awoke to a hold on life and reason,—that was the one thing perplexing to the man in the priest's gown; and not even Ana was allowed to hear the constant demands for Doña Espiritu, or the girl of the temple, or the lady who had led him out of the wilderness under the light of the morning star! All those things would have seemed like maddest ravings to any but Padre Libertad, who carefully excluded all visitors from the room, despite the protests of Doña Angela, who claimed the privilege of relationship,—a claim denied by a shake of the head of the silent, book-reading padre.
Raquel moved almost as silently about the corridors of the Mission, serene, quiet, and busy, always busy with the entertainment of her numerous guests. The people of the country rode on any pretext to San Juan in those days, to meet the Downings and talk by the hour in the cool shadows of the patio concerning the tragedies of the bandits. The beautiful old Mission town had gained a new sort of fame through them.
Rafael arranged barbecues and picnics to the cañons, where the wild-rose thickets were yet odorous with bloom. Even a dance was arranged by some of the gentlemen in the old wing of the Mission, called the travellers' room,—a Spanish dance at which only those wearing the old Spanish costumes dared keep time to the music, and the Mexican serape was discarded for the velvet cloak or cape of grander days.