"I did not say that. I said I should not bother you,--recognizing
your hostility and your reasons. Be faithful to your traditions, my
beautiful doomswoman. No man is worth the sacrifice of those dear old
comrades. What presumption for a man to require you to abandon the
cause of your house, give up your brother, sacrifice one or more of
your religious principles; one, too, who would open his doors to the
Americans you hate! No man is worth such a sacrifice as that."

"No," she said, "no man." But she said it without enthusiasm.

"A man is but one; traditions are fivefold, and multiplied by duty.
Poor grain of sand--what can he give, comparable to the cold serene
happiness of fidelity to self? Love is sweet,--horribly sweet,--but so
common a madness can give but a tithe of the satisfaction of duty to
pure and lofty ideals."

"I do not believe that." The woman in her arose in resentment. "A life
of duty must be empty, cold, and wrong. It was not that we were made
for."

"Let us talk little of love, señorita: it is a dangerous subject."

"But it interests me, and I should like to understand it."

"I will explain the subject to you fully, some day. I have a fancy to
do that on my own territory,--up in the redwoods--"

"Here is Prudencia."

A small black figure swept down the steps of the church. She bowed