working desperately against a thing that would have no end.
Cecilia was one of the most ardent secret champions of the Americans, since it was said that every person's debt would be forgiven when they came. She stood now at her door, hands idle from her task, waiting for somebody to come from the scene of activities in the courtyard and give her the latest news. Don Abrahan had been locked in his own prison, she knew. She felt now that she was free; defiance sat on her lips, gleamed in her eyes. Poor Liseta, who had watched in hope from day to day for the Americans to come marching from Monterey, had missed this great development at her own door, out with the goats since the first break of dawn.
Now who was this coming down the hill, with the head of a woman and the body of a barrel? There was nobody on that ranch, man or woman, living under the pressure of Don Abrahan's hand, who had the leisure or the substance to accumulate so much fat.
Cecilia's curiosity impelled her forward a little to meet this mystery on the way.
"I am looking for Cecilia," Doña Carlota panted, weak between terror and the labor of walking down the hill.
"Is it possible, lady?" Cecilia asked, rude mockery in her words.
She saw that Doña Carlota had not recognized her, and she was insolent in the strength of the new
