oppressive night, such as comes rarely in California, even in the summer
heats. Te--filo slept but little, and twice during the night he got up
from his bench bed and prayed to San Lucas, for this seemed to be the
final chance for his and Magdalena's happiness, and after his interview
with the Father all had seemed so bright that it was hard now to give up
hope. Magdalena, on her part, slept not at all, but she did not pray.
Instead, she lay with wide-open eyes in the darkness of her little
windowless room, looking up at the low ceiling and fighting over in her
heart the old battle of love and pride. One might say that love stood
for the Indian and pride for the Spaniard in her, and that it was an
incident in the old feud that began with Cortes and Malinche. And then
she thought of what Te--filo had told her, how he had told the Father
about painting the angels for the church because he had seen her
standing with upraised hands, like an angel, that day. Poor Te--filo! how
he loved her! and how she loved him, too! It was hard, very hard, that
there was so much trouble. How happy they might be! And he was so
clever, and might be a real painter, not working in the fields or at the
workshops, but only painting angels and beautiful things. And she was
the cause, in a way, of his being so clever she was proud of that, and
the thought made her glow, simple Indian girl as she was, with a woman's
sweetest thrill--he was clever because of her! Yet now she must spoil
it all, and all for the Father's hardness.

But then, must she?--for she knew that it lay with her, after all. She
could make all so happy why not? Ah, but the humiliation! No, she could
not. But could she not? The humiliation would soon be over, and the
prize was so great. They might be married, and even at once. Yes and no,
yes and no--so the fight went on, as the hours dragged past and the
heavy air pressed upon her restless nerves and forbade sleep.