Don Anabel came at once sternly to the point. She, Consuelo, had been seen to talk, on a certain night, with the Americano from her balcony. And more recently, not ten days ago, she had been observed standing with him outside the garden gate. It was incredible. She must understand that not only she herself, but the foolish youth, too, must suffer for these indiscretions. Don Anabel would see that this youth received a flogging that same night. Consuelo repressed an involuntary scream. Flogged! With those blood-letting rawhides! But whipping had not been since she was a child of seven! Pride struggled within her. How could she confess that it was she who had made the first advances--that the American had come not to serenade her, but at her summons. No; he was a man, let him take the flogging. She tossed her head. Others had endured more for her sake! But she could not. “Papa, it was not the fault of the Yanqui. I sent for him, to warn him to have a care, as I had heard threats for his safety. And the last time, he met me--he met me on the street, returning from Doña Katarina’s with Felicita I was--and like any _caballero_ would, he brought us home. Will you flog him for that?” Deeply chagrined that his daughter had gone probably to a rendezvous with the American, Don Anabel sent her to her room till he should give her leave to join the family again. He left the house at once, riding away in great agitation on his fastest mare. Consuelo wept, enduring such pain as only sixteen can feel. It was not alone the disgrace with the family. Alas, no. Everything faded before the fact that this golden youth, brought by the Trail to her very window, and whom she had liberated from the _carcel_, did not care for her. He had broken his promise. He had stayed at the house of the girl called Hope until way past the hour of their promised meeting. Consuelo had trembled at the window till nearly midnight, Felicita at her feet. Now Consuelo clung to her oft-abused Felicita as she had when a tiny imperious little thing, when Felicita had been slave indeed to her whims and charms. The caress of Consuelo’s tiny hands had enchained the childless bond-woman then, and through the years had softened the sting of Consuelo’s raging rebukes, the slaps and unreason. For all this Felicita was now repaid as Consuelo poured out her grief. At length she sat up and dried her tears. “It is well, Felicita. Go take siesta, _pobre de ti_ [poor thee]. How good and kind to your wicked ungrateful one all these years.” She pushed her gently through the door.