Elena was insensible again for a while, then lay dull and inert for hours.  She had a passive longing for death.  After the suffering and the hideous mortification of that day there seemed no other climax.  The cavalcade rode beneath her windows once more, with their untired laughter, their splendid vitality.  They scattered to their rooms to don their bright evening gowns, then went to the dining room and feasted.

After supper Francisca unlocked Elena’s door and entered with a little tray on her hand.  Elena refused to eat, but her sister’s presence roused her, and she turned her face to the wall and burst into tears.

“Nonsense!” said Francisca, kindly.  “Do not cry, my sister.  What is a lover?  The end of a little flirtation?  My father will find thee a husband—­a strong fair English husband like mine.  Dost thou not prefer blondes to brunettes, my sister?  I am sorry my mother beat thee, but she has such a sense of her duty.  She did it for thy good, my Elena.  Let me dress thee in thy new gown, the white silk with the pale blue flowers.  It is high in the neck and long in the sleeves, and will hide the marks of the whip.  Come down and play cascarones and dance until dawn and forget all about it.”

But Elena only wept on, and Francisca left her for more imperative duties.

The next day the girl still refused to eat, although Dona Jacoba opened her mouth and poured a cup of chocolate down her throat.  Late in the afternoon Santiago slipped into the room and bent over her.

“Elena,” he whispered hurriedly.  “Look!  I have a note for thee.”

Elena sat upright on the bed, and he thrust a piece of folded paper into her hand.  “Here it is.  He is in San Luis Obispo and says he will stay there.  Remember it is but a few miles away.  My—­”

Elena sank back with a cry, and Santiago blasphemed in English.  Dona Jacoba unlocked her daughter’s hand, took the note, and led Santiago from the room.  When she reached her own, she opened a drawer and handed him a canvas bag full of gold.

“Go to San Francisco and enjoy yourself,” she said.  “Interfere no farther between your sister and your parents, unless you prefer that reata to gold.  Your craft cannot outwit mine, and she will read no notes.  You are a foolish boy to set your sense against your mother’s.  I may seem harsh to my children, but I strive on my knees for their good.  And when I have made up my mind that a thing is right to do, you know that my nature is of iron.  No child of mine shall marry a lazy vagabond who can do nothing but lie in a hammock and bet and gamble and make love.  And a half-breed!  Mother of God!  Now go to San Francisco, and send for more money when this is gone.”

Santiago obeyed.  There was nothing else for him to do.