“Indeed!” he replied to the colonel, politely, and answered intelligently upon matters of the trade until they reached the house, where the colonel went to see that lunch was forthcoming at once, before siesta. Then Steven opened his hand and spread out the crumpled paper, half foolishly, half expectantly. Was it from Don Tiburcio de Garcia? In a fine, painstaking script the note ran thus: Señor Estevan Mercer: Will you not come below the _balcon_ where first we met yesterday, at the tenth hour tonight? I should esteem it a favor, as I have a word for your safety. Consuelo Lucero Lopez y Chavez. Steven was looking for intrigue. But political, not the intrigue of lovely ladies. Still, pleased and puzzled, he revolved the matter in his mind for a moment. Ceran St. Vrain had warned him against girls, this girl in particular. Colonel Bent had warned him against political entanglements. And here he was getting nicely tied up in both, it seemed. For of course he would be beneath the _balcon_ at the stroke of ten. Oh well, time enough yet. Here he was, and he hadn’t done anything, so far. He’d been forced to slight the señorita the night before, and not of his own accord or liking, either. He must make apology for that, in any event. A wonder she would bother about him at all. Steven’s modesty was not greater than that of the average decent youth, perhaps, yet to tell the truth, as he was unfamiliar with the manners of this new old world, he had not realized that Consuelo was indicating any special favor for him by her actions of the night before. He had seen her twice before that day, and she was smiling at him in pleasant recognition. He had already asked Hope Bragdon to promenade. In New Orleans he had been well schooled in the proper thing to do. Well, at all events, he would be under that balcony at ten. Had Consuelo been able to know of that decision it would have saved her much suspense. Relegated to her room for the day, she was in disgrace. Yet it was a relief to be there, away from the incessant agitation of Doña Gertrudis’ tongue. Scarcely had the wavering candles been relit in the dance hall the night before when Doña Gertrudis, sweeping her daughter before her, and surrounded by their elderly neighbors and their cousins and their aunts, poured out of the place and down the street, _duennas_ and _muchachas_, chaperons and girls. While some were frightened and many were elated, they themselves were in reality in no danger. The indignant clatter of Doña Gertrudis’ tongue would have caused every drunken trapper or jovial Spaniard to give her a wide berth. When they had reached their own home she poured out her indignation again to Don Anabel.