Don Tiburcio was relieved not to see Consuelo at dinner that night. Dinner was a quiet affair, with Doña Gertrudis much subdued, Luis abstracted. Don Tiburcio could not like Luis wholly, but there was a certain careless gayety and deference about the boy that was most charming. The family separated immediately after the meal and Don Tiburcio departed up the street where Ceran St. Vrain was lodging; Luis disappeared; and Doña Gertrudis went to see if her poor little Consuelo had eaten her supper, and found her already in bed, so retired herself. _Valga-me!_ it was ten minutes to ten o’clock. No sooner had her mother departed than Consuelo leaped from her bed, patted the bolster into her own place, pulling the covers up deftly over it. She snatched her shoes from under the bed, flung a white lace scarf over her tumbled hair, and tiptoed through the door at the opposite end of the room, across the room of the sleeping grandmother, into another chamber, unoccupied, and beyond to Felicita’s room. There stood her slave, shivering with excitement, and steadied a chair while Consuelo mounted to the _balcon_, where she crouched, peering between the crudely turned bars. A yellow harvest moon was just rising over the Sangre de Cristo. Before long its radiance would flood the quiet street. Now it gave but a slight glow. The street below was empty. Consuelo’s heart thumped so loudly that at first she thought it the beat of a horse’s hoofs on the road. _Dios!_ If he did not come. It would be simply not to be supported! She held her breath in an agony of listening. Not a sound, not a footfall, not a breath stirring. Desperately she peered over the railing. He was there, below the _balcon_, close to the wall. Imagine! She rose bravely and leaned over. “Señor, I thank you for coming. I wished to tell you that you are in danger, señor.” “It does not matter, señorita. It would be worth it to see you.” Was this he, Steven Mercer, talking? _Maman_ would quite approve of his pretty speeches. “Ah, but not just this moment. I mean all the while, señor, when you may be abroad at night. For that reason I wished to warn you. Do not go unarmed at night, nor to out-of-the-way places by day, I beg of you.” She was pleading so earnestly that Steven looked up in surprise, at once serious. “Have you heard anyone threatening me, Señorita Lopez?” he asked. “Oh, I have heard of threats. My brother Luis he threatens because you danced with the fair girl last night and she would not walk with him. He thinks--you are in love with her, señor?----” “And would it be his affair if I were?” replied Steven, with a trace of asperity. “But I am not, señorita. She is my countrywoman, and I am bound to protect her and be courteous to her. That is all.”