“I am mad to see Don Diego Estenega,” said Valencia, her red lips pouting.  “Why did he, of all others, tarry?”

“He is fickle and perverse,” I said,—­“the most uncertain man I know.”

“Perhaps he thought to make us wish to see him the more,” suggested Valencia.

“No,” I said:  “he has no ridiculous vanities.”

Chonita wandered back and forth behind the arches, waiting for Prudencia’s long confession of sinless errors to conclude.

“What has a baby like that to confess?” she thought, impatiently.  “She could not sin if she tried.  She knows nothing of the dark storms of rage and hatred and revenge which can gather in the breasts of stronger and weaker beings.  I never knew, either, until lately; but the storm is so black I dare not face it and carry it to the priest.  I am a sort of human chaos, and I wish I were dead.  I thought to forget him, and I see him as plainly as on that morning when he told me that it was he who would send my brother to prison——­”

She stopped short with a little cry.  Diego Estenega stood before the Mission in the broad swath of moonlight.  She had heard a horse gallop up the valley, but had paid no attention to the familiar sound.  Estenega had appeared as suddenly as if he had arisen from the earth.

“It is I, senorita.”  He ascended the Mission steps.  “Do not fear.  May I kiss your hand?”

She gave him her hand, but withdrew it hurriedly.  Of the tremendous mystery of sex she knew almost nothing.  Girls were brought up in such ignorance in those days that many a bride ran home to her mother on her wedding night; and books teach Innocence little.  But she was fully conscious that there was something in the touch of Estenega’s lips and hand that startled while it thrilled and enthralled.

“I thought you stayed with the Ortegas to-night,” she said.  Oh, blessed conventions!

“I did,—­for a few hours.  Then I wanted to see you, and I left them and came on.  At Casa Grande I found no one but Eustaquia; every one else had gone to the gardens; and she told me that you were here.”

Chonita’s heart was beating as fast as it had beaten that morning; even her hands shook a little.  A glad wave of warmth rushed over her.  She turned to him impetuously.  “Tell me?” she exclaimed.  “Why do I feel like this for you?  I hate you:  you know that.  There are many reasons,—­five; you counted them.  And yet I feel excited, almost glad, at your coming.  This morning I was disappointed when you did not.  Tell me,—­you know everything, and I so little,—­why is it?”

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes terrified and appealing.  She looked very lovely and natural.  Probably for the first time in his life Estenega resisted a temptation.  He passionately wished to take her in his arms and tell her the truth.  But he was too clever a man; there was too much at stake; if he frightened her now he might never even see her again.  Moreover, she appealed to his chivalry.  And it suddenly occurred to him that so sweet a heart would be warped in its waking if passion bewildered and controlled her first.