. No, senor, we know
the Judas asked of you by this daughter of Miguel;--it is the pale
beast called El Aleman. For many, many days have we made prayers like
this, before every shrine, that the saints would send him again to our
valley. You, senor, have brought answer to that prayer. You have him
trapped, but he belongs only to us women. The saints listened to us,
and you are in it. Men often are in prayers like that, and have no
knowing of it, senor."

Kit listened in amazement to this account of prayers to Mexican saints
for a Judas to hang on Good Friday! After four centuries of foreign
priesthood, and foreign saints on the shrines, the mental effect on
the aborigines had not risen above crucifixion occasionally on some
proxy for their supreme earthly god, or mad orgies of vengeance on a
proxy for Judas. The great drama of Calvary had taught them only new
forms of torture and the certainty that vengeance was a debt to be
paid. Conrad was to them the pale beast whipping women into
slavery,--and as supreme traitor to human things must be given a Judas
death!

He shivered as he listened, and looked at the eyes of women staring
out of the dusk for the answer to their prayers.

"_Por Dios!_" muttered Rotil, half turning to Kit, yet losing nothing
of the pleading strained faces. "Does your head catch all of that,
senor? Can't women beat hell? And women breed us all! What's the
answer?"

"In this case it's up to you, General," replied Kit. "I'm glad the
responsibility is not mine. Even as it is, women who look like these
are likely to walk through my dreams for many a night!"

Rotil gloomed at them, puzzled, frowning, and at times the flicker of
a doubtful smile would change his face without lighting it. No one
moved or spoke.

"Here!" he said at last, "this child and two women have spoken, but
there are over twenty of you here. Three out of twenty is no
vote--hold up your hands. Come, don't hang back, or you won't get
Judas! There are no priests here, and no spies for priests, and there
have been words enough. Show your hands!"

Kit looked back into the darkest corner, wondering what the vote of
Jocasta would be; her mother was said to be Indian, or half Indian,
and her hatred of the German would help her understand these darker
tribal sisters.

But in the many lifted hands her own could not be seen and he felt
curiously relieved, though it was no affair of his, and one vote
either way would weigh nothing.

R