Imagine, Consuelo, ungrateful daughter of no consideration, had again this night insulted such a noble gentleman as Don Tiburcio. “_Si!_ I saw with my own eyes.” And moreover, she had smiled openly at the Americano, the very trader who had been at their house that same night. At the first of these charges Don Anabel became very stern and dignified. At the second he flew into a fiery rage. “I will myself have this young scoundrel thrown into jail,” he stormed. “But what for, papa?” Consuelo protested, aghast at the storm her behaviour had evoked. No matter. She should keep to her room the whole of the following day and learn better how to conduct herself with her inferiors. And so she had, alternating between regret and fury that the ruddy-haired trader had not danced with her. Shortly before noon the faded and faithful Felicita came tiptoeing in, to report all the news. After recounting the events of the morning’s trading, what her father had bought, and how the father of the blonde girl had made fire with naught but a tiny splinter (and she knew, therefore, that he must indeed be in league with the devil), Felicita’s pock-marked face blanched at this, she whispered, “The _caballero_, the young gentleman who stopped beneath the balcony yesterday afternoon--your brother Señor Luis, has threatened that if that one does not abandon the white girl he, Don Luis, will attend to the Yanqui’s funeral himself. “Yes, and even Don Tiburcio, señorita, is enchanted, they say, by the fair-haired American, and followed the merchants to their house last night. Surely there will be trouble for the handsome lad.” Felicita sighed, for, though old at thirty, romance had not departed from her, and when peeping over the window ledge the day before, she had seen the youth stop, look up and smile at her mistress--as who did not--and bid her good afternoon. Consuelo’s rage against Estevan Mercer, if that was what they called him, melted into a swift flow of concern. How terrible! She had brought all this upon him. This was a pleasanter thought than that he had brought it upon himself or that Luis was merely visiting his wrath upon Steven. “What will Luis do, Felicita?” Consuelo barely breathed the question. “He will shoot or knife him, señorita, the first time he catches him out at night.” “Oh, I must tell Don Estevan! Where is the American now, Felicita? At the warehouse? Good! good! Quick, Felicita! Give me pencil and paper.” Felicita flew; her young mistress was educated, she could write. This was important.