“You mean he held it up?” demanded Don Anabel. “At your orders?” Luis nodded. “I suspected the Yankees, señor, and--_you see_?” he shrugged eloquently, and struck nonchalantly one of the new matches to light his cigarette. Don Anabel did not reply. He was thinking fast. The _jefe politico_ had not yet returned. He was still off fighting Texans. As an influential private citizen he, Don Anabel, could get the sheriff, _el alguacil mayor_, to arrest the suspected youth and put him in the _carcel_. That would keep him safe, and it would be a thousand times harder for him to get out again than for them to get him in. Yet Don Anabel would not give the order till after dinner. Luis chafed, but he knew enough to hide any undue eagerness. The matter was discussed at the table. “What, the handsome Americano a spy!” The sentimental Doña Gertrudis could scarcely believe it. “_Un espio, un emisario secreto!_” Consuelo ceased the busy and healthful plying of spoon and fork from plate to mouth. Her eyes widened, her lips parted, she put down her sopped piece of tortilla. _Ay, madrecita de Dios!_ They were actually going to arrest him and put him in that filthy _carcel_, with the _piojos_, yes fleas, from every unwashed peon ready to leap upon him. But what for, what for, papa? They had a letter which proved that he was a spy? But how could one know the Americano had written that same letter? Even after Luis had departed with his father in search of the _alguacil_ Consuelo would not believe it. It is not strange that Consuelo should have been a headstrong product of the same upbringing as her brother. From an adored infancy she had had her way. A wave of small fat arms and two nurses scurried to bring what she wanted. Tears, and even Don Anabel gave her anything she wept for. As she grew older almost every wish was gratified before she had time to pout about it, and it was nothing short of a miracle that with all this, still the Spanish virtues of filial courtesy, respect to one’s elders, and strict observance of the manners of the day were instilled into her. Though she rebelled, she observed them. When she was most rebellious Father Filemon Hubert, the French padre, could always quiet her; a walk in the peace of his lovely quaint garden, a talk with his quiet, gentle, saintly self, and the tantrum would pass. But she could not seek Father Filemon tonight, and she wanted this youth to play with. She wanted him. He was the first interesting thing that had happened in her life, but yes. He should not be taken away from her. She had been extraordinarily good on the day after her incarceration in her room, and the day after that had wondered all day long what the Americano was doing, where he was. He had told her that he did not love the pale girl. _Muy bien_, she could not free this youth by crying, but she could perhaps by trying.