“I have no desire to escape the consequences.  I staked all and lost.  And nothing can affect me now.  He has proved a dog, a cur, a coward, a brute.  I can suffer no more than when I made that discovery; and if my mother chooses to kill me, I shall make no resistance.”

“Thou art young and clever and will forget him.  He is not worth remembering.  He shall not go unpunished.  I shall use my influence to have him sent to the poorest hamlet in California.  He is worthy to do only the meanest work of the Church, and my influence with the clergy is stronger than his.  But thou?  I shall receive your mother when she comes, and beg her to leave you with me during the vacation.  Then, later, when her wrath is appeased, I will suggest that she send you to live for two years with your relatives at Santa Barbara.”

Pilar lifted her shoulders and stared out of the window.  Suddenly she gave a start and trembled.  The bell of the gate was pealing vociferously.  Dona Concepcion sprang to her feet.

“Stay here,” she said; “I will receive her in the grand sala.”

But her interview with Dona Brigida lasted two minutes.

“Give her to me!” cried the terrible old woman, her furious tones ringing through the convent.  “Give her to me!  I came not here to talk with nuns.  Stand aside!”

Dona Concepcion was forced to lead her to the little sala.  She strode into the room, big and brown and bony, looking like an avenging Amazon, this mother of thirteen children.  Her small eyes were blazing, and the thick wrinkles about them quivered.  Her lips twitched, her cheeks burned with a dull dark red.  In one hand she carried a greenhide reata.  With the other she caught her daughter’s long unbound hair, twisted it about her arm like a rope, then brought the reata down on the unprotected shoulders with all her great strength Dona Concepcion fled from the room.  Pilar made no sound.  She had expected this, and had vowed that it should not unseal her lips.  The beating stopped abruptly.  Dona Brigida, still with the rope of hair about her arm, pushed Pilar through the door, out of the convent and its gates, then straight down the hill.  For the first time the girl faltered.

“Not to the Presidio!” she gasped.

Her mother struck her shoulder with a fist as hard as iron, and Pilar stumbled on.  She knew that if she refused to walk, her mother would carry her.  They entered the Presidio.  Pilar, raising her eyes for one brief terrible moment, saw that Tomaso, her mother’s head vaquero, stood in the middle of the square holding two horses, and that every man, woman, and child of the Presidio was outside the buildings.  The Commandante and the Alcalde were with the Governor and his staff, and Padre Estudillo.  They had the air of being present at an important ceremony.