"The Señora is kind," she said, "but my mother will now sleep for many hours. The Señora need not fear; she will scream no more. She has taken the sleeping potion, and now I am free to go with my child to the early celebration."
Mariposilla was now awake. Her hair had fallen over her shoulders and the little necklace still encircled her throat. About her eyes lingered the rosy flush of her unbroken sleep. She sat up as we entered, pushing quickly beneath her nightgown sleeve a tiny rim of gold.
"Come, my child," said the Doña Maria, "make haste and prepare for the early celebration. Our sufferer sleeps at last, and we may now go together to the church and thank once more the sweet Mother for the birth of the Holy Child."
I went back to my room as Mariposilla began to dress. A few moments later I heard the outer door close gently, and knew that the Doña Maria and her child had gone.
A strange fear fastened upon me, driving me irresistibly to the adjoining door. I opened it. The darkened room was a fascinating terror. I entered, and approached the bed of the sleeping Spanish woman. Her stillness was terrible. The old horror seized me. I felt once more the power of my old enemy. Death seemed to be facing me again. The same cruel, dreadful certainty that I knew so well! I staggered forward to flee. I must have fainted, for when I revived I was lying upon the floor in front of the little wooden Virgin. The blessed sunlight was peeping from the sides of the window curtains, while above the head of the image there hung a golden beam.
I arose and stood calmly by the bed of the Spanish woman.
The linen was spotless; the pillow cases and night-dress of the sleeper elaborate with the drawn needlework of the Doña Maria. The snowy whiteness of the counterpane contrasted strangely with the bronzed, weather-beaten features and large, gnarled hands of the woman beneath, so like a mummy that her breathing alone seemed human.
Yet regular and warm as an infant's, her breath issued through her half-open mouth. No muscle stirred. No sound broke the silence; until, in the distance, floating above the orange groves, and on to the Christmas day, rang the bells of old San Gabriel.