“My friend,” said Dona Eustaquia, after a moment, “perhaps it is best that I do not forgive her.  Were she happy, then might the curse come true.”

“She has enough else to make her unhappy.  Besides, who ever heard of a curse coming true?  It has worked its will already for the matter of that.  You kept your child from happiness with her husband during the brief time she had him.  The bitterness of death is a small matter beside the bitterness of life.  You should be satisfied.”

“You are hard, my friend.”

“I see your other faults only to respect and love them.”

“Does she look ill, Captain?”

“She cannot be expected to look like the old Benicia.  Of course she looks ill, and needs care.”

“Look over the shoulder.  Does she walk heavily?”

“Very.  But as haughtily as do you.”

“Talk of other things for a little while, my friend.”

“Truly there is much to claim the interest to-night.  This may be an old scene to you, but it is novel and fascinating to me.  How lovely are those stately girls, half hidden by their rebosas, telling their beads as they hurry along.  It is the very coquetry of religion.  And those—­But here we are.”

The church was handsomer without than within, for the clever old padres that built it had more taste than their successors.  About the whitewashed walls of the interior were poor copies of celebrated paintings—­the Passion of Christ, and an extraordinary group of nude women and grinning men representing the temptation of St. Anthony.  In a glass case a beautiful figure of the Saviour reclined on a stiff couch clumsily covered with costly stuffs.  The Virgin was dressed much like the aristocratic ladies of Monterey, and the altar was a rainbow of tawdry colours.

But the ceremonies were interesting, and Brotherton forgot Benicia for the hour.  After the mass the priest held out a small waxen image of the infant Jesus, and all approached and kissed it.  Then from without came the sound of a guitar; the worshippers arose and ranged themselves against the wall; six girls dressed as shepherdesses; a man representing Lucifer; two others, a hermit and the lazy vagabond Bartola; a boy, the archangel Gabriel, entered the church.  They bore banners and marched to the centre of the building, then acted their drama with religious fervour.

The play began with the announcement by Gabriel of the birth of the Saviour, and exhortations to repair to the manger.  On the road came the temptation of Lucifer; the archangel appeared once more; a violent altercation ensued in which all took part, and finally the prince of darkness was routed.  Songs and fanciful by-play, brief sermons, music, gay and solemn, diversified the strange performance.  When all was over, the players were followed by an admiring crowd to the entertainment awaiting them.

“Is it not beautiful—­our Los Pastores?” demanded Dona Eustaquia, looking up at Brotherton, her fine face aglow with enthusiasm.  “Do not you feel the desire to be a Catholic, my friend?”