peated the home-like woman. "And if we don't choose—"
"Last Sunday they beat that sister there," said the old woman. "She swore she'd never choose, and they beat her just like they beat the men. Come, Refugio, show them your back."
But the woman at the fire shrank away and hung her head in mortification.
"No, no," she protested, then after a moment she muttered: "When the Yaqui men are beaten they die of shame, but the women can stand to be beaten; they cannot die."
"It's true," nodded the old woman, "the men die of shame sometimes—and sometimes they die of their own will."
When we turned the talk to Sonora and to the long journey the voices of the women began to falter. They were from Pilares de Teras, where are situated the mines of Colonel Garcia. The soldiers had come in the daytime while the people were in the field picking the ripe corn from the stalks. They had been taken from their harvest labor and compelled to walk all the way to Hermosillo, a three weeks' tramp.
The Yaqui love for the one who suckled them is strong, and several of the younger women recounted the details of the parting from the mother. Then we spoke of their husbands again, but they held their tears until I asked the question: "How would you like to go back with me to your homes in Sonora?"
That opened the flood-gates. The tears started first down the plump cheeks of the cheery, home-like woman, then the others broke in, one at a time, and at last the listening children on the floor were blubbering dolefully with their elders. Weeping, the unhappy exiles lost their last modicum of reserve. They begged us please to take
