"My own harsh names suit my battered self
rather better, but the more Californian you are and
remain the happier I shall be. When am I to see
your ears? Are they deformed, pointed and furry
like a fawn's? Do they stand out? Were all the
women of California tattooed in some Indian
raid--"

Concha glanced about apprehensively, but not
even Santiago was there to see the dreadful deed.
With a defiant sweep of her hands she lifted both
loops of hair, and two little ears, rosy even in the
moonlight, commanded amends and more from
penitent lips.

"No man has ever seen them before--since I
was a baby; not even my father and brothers," said
Concha, trembling between horror and rapture at
the tremendous surrender. "You will never remind
me of it. Ay yi! promise--Pedro mio!"

"On condition that you promise not to confess
it. I should like to be sure that your mind belonged
as much to me and as little to others as possible. I
do not object to confession--we have it in our
church; but remember that there are other things
as sacred as your religion."

She nodded. "I understand--better than you