* * * * * Steven had just stepped from the vast copper kettle which the good Doña Katarina supplied him for the bath and was joyously rubbing himself dry after his first hot scrub in a month, when there came a knock upon his door. The _criada_, a slovenly girl, called through the door that it was Don Anabel and his attendant without. If they would please sit down, Steven called back. With glad anticipation he hurried into his clothes. The painting was then as valuable as he had thought it might be, and here was Don Anabel himself come to thank him! Good. Shortly the door of Steven’s chamber opened and Don Anabel was confronted with a stalwart young man, ruddy with health, his skin golden with the varnish of sun and desert, his hair still damp and wavy. He was smiling with assurance, the unconscionable rogue, apologizing for his lack of jacket or coat, and bowing as though in anticipation of warm greetings. Don Anabel arose and stood stiffly erect, his hand on his hip. “Do I understand you rightly that you have with you my Murillo, my sacred painting?” His nostrils dilated with nervous tension as he hung on Steven’s affirmation. “Yes, señor, I have it.” Don Anabel glared coldly at the baffled young man. “What, may I ask, is your price for the safe restoral of the painting?” “What do you mean? I do not understand you,” Steven stammered. “Your price?” the Don repeated. “Whatever it is I shall deliver it in consideration of the safe restoral.” The young man made no answer and Don Anabel continued, coldly and deliberately, “If the canvas is returned unharmed you will be permitted to leave Santa Fe without question or arrest. On the condition that you never attempt to return here,” quoth Don Anabel. With a lofty disregard that matched the New Mexican’s own, Steven ignored the imputation carried by the words--though indeed he had been actually arrested before on suspicion of espionage--and faced the wily older man with wits sharpened by his struggle with the desert these last months. “Señor”--he looked squarely at Don Anabel--“I expect to be returning to Santa Fe every year, perhaps twice a year, with a caravan of goods. I do not intend to be bullied out of a business field that is extended to others. Is it possible that you are afraid of the advent of Americans? “In my country gentlemen do not ask requital for the return of property. But as that seems to be the custom here I shall make my demands, too. I must exact the right of unmolested commerce here or I shall not answer for the safe delivery of the painting.” Steven’s voice trembled with anger. Only rage at the treatment he had received from the autocrat before him, overlord of lands that were equal to a kingdom, spurred him to use the painting as a club over Don Anabel’s head. The threat was effective.