“Thou hast come!” cried Elena at last, holding him at arm’s length that she might see him better, then clinging to him again with all her strength.  “Thou never wilt leave me again—­promise me!  Promise me, my Santiago!  Ay, I have been so lonely.”

“Never, my little one.  Have I not longed to come home that I might be with you?  O my Elena!  I know so much.  I will teach you everything.”

“Ay, I am proud of thee, my Santiago!  Thou knowest more than any boy in California—­I know.”

“Perhaps that would not be much,” with fine scorn.  “But come, Elena mia, I must go to my mother; she is waiting.  She looks as stern as ever; but how I have longed to see her!”

They ran to the house, passing the stranger, who had watched them with folded arms and scowling brows.  Santiago rushed impetuously at his mother; but she put out her arm, stiff and straight, and held him back.  Then she laid her hand, with its vice-like grip, on his shoulder, and led him down the sala to the chapel at the end.  It was arranged for the wedding, with all the pomp of velvet altar-cloth and golden candelabra.  He looked at it wonderingly.  Why had she brought him to look upon this before giving him a mother’s greeting?

“Kneel down,” she said, “and repeat the prayers of thy Church—­prayers of gratitude for thy safe return.”

The boy folded his hands deprecatingly.

“But, mother, remember it is seven long years since I have said the Catholic prayers.  Remember I have been educated in an English college, in a Protestant country.”

Her tall form curved slowly toward him, the blood blazed in her dark cheeks.

“What!” she screamed incredulously.  “Thou hast forgotten the prayers of thy Church—­the prayers thou learned at my knee?”

“Yes, mother, I have,” he said desperately.  “I cannot—­”

“God!  God!  Mother of God!  My son says this to me!” She caught him by the shoulder again and almost hurled him from the room.  Then she locked her hand about his arm and dragged him down the sala to his father’s room.  She took a greenhide reata from the table and brought it down upon his back with long sweeps of her powerful arm, but not another word came from her rigid lips.  The boy quivered with the shame and pain, but made no resistance—­for he was a Californian, and she was his mother.

III

Joaquin, the eldest son, who had been hunting bear with a number of his guests, returned shortly after his brother’s arrival and was met at the door by his mother.

“Where is Santiago?” he asked.  “I hear he has come.”

“Santiago has been sent to bed, where he will remain for the present.  We have an unexpected guest, Joaquin.  He leans there against the tree—­Don Dario Castanares.  Thou knowest who he is.  He comes to buy cattle of thy father, and will remain some days.  Thou must share thy room with him, for there is no other place—­even on the billiard-table.”