"Before long?" Concha's lips parted and the ner-
vous color she had deprecated left her cheeks.
"What meanest thou, Rosa?" Her voice rose
hoarsely.

And the Indian, with the insight of her own
tragedy, replied: "The Russian has come for you,
senorita. You will go with him, far away to the
north and the snow. These others never could win
your heart; but this man who looks like a king, and
as if many women had loved him, and he had cared
little-- Oh, senorita, Carlos was only a poor In-
dian, but the men that women love all have some-
thing that makes them brothers--the Great Rus-
sian and the poor man who goes mad for a moment
and kills one woman that he may live with another
forever. The great Russian is free, but he is the
same, senorita--he too could kill for love, and such
are the men we women die for!"

Concha, ambitious and romantic, eager for the
brilliant life the advent of this Russian nobleman
seemed to herald, had assured Santiago that he
would love her; but they had been the empty words
of the Favorita of many conquests; of love and pas-
sion she had known, suspected, nothing. As she
watched Rosa, huddled and convulsed, little pointed
arrows flew into her brain. Girls in those old Span-
ish days went to the altar with a serene faith in