gazed far
beyond her radiant image in the mirror with a look of terrified but
dauntless insight; then moved slowly to the girl that sat weeping on
the floor.

"I know not what thy sin was," she said musingly. "But I have heard it
said thou didst obey no law but thine own will--and his. Why should
the punishment have been so terrible? Thou hast sworn to me thou didst
not help to murder the woman."

"I cannot tell you, senorita. You will never know anything of sin; but
of love--yes, I think you will know that, and before very long."

"Before long?" Concha's lips parted and the nervous 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 Indian, but
the men that women love all have something that makes them
brothers--the Great Russian 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 passion she had known, suspected, nothing.
As she watched Rosa, huddled and convulsed, little pointed arrows flew
into her brain. Girls in those old Spanish days went to the altar with
a serene faith in miracles, and it was a matter of honor among those
that preceded their friends to abet the parents in a custom which
assuredly did not err on the side of ugliness. Concha had a larger
vocabulary than other Californians of her sex, for she had read many
books, and if never a novel, she knew something of poetry. Sturgis had
filled the sala with the sonorous roll of his favorite masters and it
had pleased her ear; but the language of passion had been so many
beautiful words, neither vibrating nor lingering in her consciousness.
But the rude expression of the miserable woman at her feet, whose sobs
grew more uncontrollable every moment, made it for