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The week of festivity was over; the bridal pair, the relatives, the friends went away.  Quiet would have taken temporary possession of Los Quervos had it not been for the many passing guests lavishly entertained by Don Roberto.

And still Elena lay in her little iron bed, refusing to get out of it, barely eating, growing weaker and thinner every day.  At the end of three weeks Dona Jacoba was thoroughly alarmed, and Don Roberto sent Joaquin to San Francisco for a physician.

The man of science came at the end of a week.  He asked many questions, and had a long talk with his patient.  When he left the sick-room, he found Don Roberto and Dona Jacoba awaiting him in the library.  They were ready to accept his word as law, for he was an Englishman, and had won high reputation during his short stay in the new country.

He spoke with curt directness.  “My dear sir, your child is dying because she does not wish to live.  People who write novels call it dying of a broken heart; but it does not make much difference about the name.  Your child is acutely sensitive, and has an extremely delicate constitution—­predisposition to consumption.  Separation from the young man she desires to marry has prostrated her to such an extent that she is practically dying.  Under existing circumstances she will not live two months, and, to be brutally frank, you will have killed her.  I understand that the young man is well-born on his father’s side, and possessed of great wealth.  I see no reason why she should not marry him.  I shall leave her a tonic, but you can throw it out of the window unless you send for the young man,” and he walked down the stair and made ready for his departure.

Don Roberto translated the verdict to his wife.  She turned very gray, and her thin lips pressed each other.  But she bent her head.  “So be it,” she said; “I cannot do murder.  Send for Dario Castanares.”

“And tell him to take her to perdition,” roared the old man.  “Never let me see her again.”

He went down the stair, filled a small bag with gold, and gave it to the doctor.  He found Joaquin and bade him go for Dario, then shut himself in a remote room, and did not emerge until late that day.

Dona Jacoba sent for the maid, Malia.

“Bring me one of your frocks,” she said, “a set of your undergarments, a pair of your shoes and stockings.”  She walked about the room until the girl’s return, her face terrible in its repressed wrath, its gray consciousness of defeat.  When Malia came with the garments she told her to follow, and went into Elena’s room and stood beside the bed.

“Get up,” she said.  “Dress thyself in thy bridal clothes.  Thou art going to marry Dario Castanares to-day.”

The girl looked up incredulously, then closed her eyes wearily.

“Get up,” said her mother.  “The doctor has said that we must let our daughter marry the half-breed or answer to God for her murder.”  She turned to the maid:  “Malia, go downstairs and make a cup of chocolate and bring it up.  Bring, too, a glass of angelica.”