“This painting is one,” Don Tiburcio continued, knowing well that it was almost the last thing in the world that Don Anabel would part with, “and the other----” His words remained unspoken, for at this moment the ladies entered the _sala_, Doña Gertrudis first, billowing in importantly, glowing with rose garnets and pearls. Consuelo followed demurely, decorously, with lowered eyes, yet inclining her head to Don Tiburcio’s bow. Within her bodice her heart was beating furiously, but from the tail of her eyes she watched the distinguished visitor. “It is a great pleasure to see you once again, señora, and you, señorita. Your servant.” “_Igualmente, igualmente_ [Equally, equally], señor!” “And now let us sup.” Don Anabel led the way toward the dining room, which was at the rear of the house, near the kitchen. They passed through the entrance hall, out into the patio, and crossed to the other side. Don Anabel’s house, like all large Mexican houses, was a square built about an inner court, into which most of the rooms opened. Into a long cozy room they stepped, where dining and serving tables were heaped with the efforts of the good Lupe. Every dish was of purest silver, plate and goblet, bowl and salver; candlelight; linens of finest drawnwork; a young roast pig served whole on a massive platter; chicken and rice flanked with squash; stewed corn; melon cooled in the fountain; wines from the grapes of the Tesuque Valley near Santa Fe; pickled watermelon; apricot pastries. It was a scene of mediæval plenty. The guest tasted everything, to Doña Gertrudis’s satisfaction, and ate well, slowly, savoring the feast after the rough fare enforced during the long journey up into the province. “I am reminded,” he addressed Doña Gertrudis, “that I captured far to the south of here, señora, a number of young _javalinas_ [peccary], and I have brought one alive for you. I think you will like the flavor, for it is even more delicate, if possible, than the shoat here.” Thus the talk turned to his voyage. The Indians to the south, while not on the warpath, were far from being peaceful. Acoma, that strange Indian pueblo perched upon the high rock, held a deadly hatred for all Spaniards, the visitor said, and there were, southward a few days’ travel, bands of plains Indians that strayed over from eastward, who were more fierce than any he had yet seen. But the country was rich and fertile. Corn he had seen fourteen feet high; peaches that would not enter a pint cup; and beaver enough to line all the capes of all the crowned heads in Europe. He held the company enthralled with brave tales of many perilous escapes upon this journey, and strange sights that he had seen in the desert.