The little form was so still and peaceful. Surely there could be no danger! So the nurse, who loved her dearly, knelt down and kissed her very lightly, saying, in the Indian tongue,
“Master of life, preserve the little white rosebud.”
Again she pressed her dusky lips to the sweet little face, so peaceful in its innocent repose, then ran away through the garden to the roadside, with her companion, the bright-eyed Indian girl.
It was a rare sight in the eyes of these simple Indians, that long procession, with its swelling music and waving banners. All the Indian lads and maidens in the country were there, dressed in their gala attire, while the bright-colored handkerchiefs and shawls of the more rustic señoras, as they rode by on horseback, added not a little to the festive scene.
For full fifteen minutes they sat watching the procession, crouching behind the garden wall, that the señora might not see them. Well they knew her eyes would be attracted by the magnetism of love to her child and home.
“See, mother Macata,” said the young girl, sorrowfully, “there are all my mates, while I am here. Oh! how I wish I could go with them!”
Just then the señora passed, and, mid all the joy of the occasion, Macata saw a look of deep solicitude in her face as she turned toward the house. “We must go,” said the old woman, taking the hand of the young girl.
“Only one moment,” replied the maiden; and while old Macata yielded, she could not suppress an emotion of uneasiness which the señora’s look had nervously roused.
“Now! now!” said the old woman, nervously, as again she clasped the hand of the girl, and dragged her away from the attractive scene.
“You know the baby sleeps,” said the girl, pettishly; but Macata, in her uneasiness, hurried onward.