ng change in
his air and appearance, but as he was evidently going to her mother's
room, she shrank back and sat motionless so as not to attract his
attention.

Then she went to the parlor, and had the fire renewed and food put upon
the table. She was sure that he would need it, and she believed he would
be glad to talk over with her the events of the afternoon.

The Senora was still sitting at the foot of the crucifix when her
husband opened the door. She had not been able to pray; ave and
paternoster alike had failed her. Her rebellious grief filled every
corner of her heart. She understood that some one had entered the room,
and she thought of Rachela; but she found a kind of comfort in the dull
stupor of grief she was indulging, and she would not break its spell by
lifting her head.

"Maria."

She rose up quickly and stood gazing at him.

She did not shriek or exclaim; her surprise controlled her. And also her
terror; for his face was white as death, and had an expression of angry
despair that terrified her.

"Roberto! Roberto! Mi Roberto! How you have tortured me! I have nearly
died! Fray Ignatius said you had been sent to prison."

She spoke as calmly as a frightened child; sad and hesitating. If he had
taken her in his arms she would have sobbed her grief away there.

But Robert Worth was at that hour possessed by two master passions,
tyrannical and insatiable--they would take notice of nothing that did
not minister to them.

"Maria, they have taken my arms from me. Cowards! Cowards! Miserable
cowards! I refused to give them up! They held my hands and robbed
me--robbed me of my manhood and honor! I begged them to shoot me ere
they did it, and they spoke courteously and regretted this, and hoped
that, till I felt that it would be a joy to strangle them."

"Roberto! Mi Roberto! You have me!"

"I want my rifle and all it represents. I want myself back again. Maria,
Maria, until then, I am not worthy to be any good woman's husband!"

"Roberto, dearest! It is not your fault."

"It is my fault. I have waited too long. My sons showed me my duty--my
soul urged me to do it. I deserve the shame, but I will wipe it out with
crimson blood."

The Senora stood speechless, wringing her hands. Her own passion was
puny beside the sternness, the reality, and the intensity of the quiet
rage before her. She was completely mastered by it. She forgot all but
the evident agony she could neither mistake nor console.