Before he could think of anything to say to her, she smiled, and uttered some words in a soft, flowing language with which he was entirely unacquainted. The next moment she had glided past him, and was out of sight round the curve of the path, leaving him in a state of perplexity not altogether gratifying. “What the deuce can it mean?” he muttered to himself. “I can’t be mistaken about its being Miriam. And yet she didn’t look at me as if she recognized me. What can she be doing out here at midnight? I suppose it’s none of my business: in fact, she might very reasonably ask the same question of me. And if I were to tell her that I had only ridden over to spend a sentimental hour beneath her window, what would she say? If she answered in the same lingo she used just now, I should be as wise as before. After all, it may have been somebody else. The image in my mind projected itself on her countenance. I certainly must be in love! I almost wish I’d never come here. This complication about the general’s irrigating scheme makes it awkward. I’m bound not to explain things to him; and yet, if I don’t, and he discovers (as he can’t help doing) what I am here for, nothing will persuade him that I haven’t been playing a double game; and that would not be a promising preliminary towards becoming a member of his family. If Miriam were only Grace, now, it would be plain sailing. Hello! who’s this? Senor Don Miguel, as I’m a sinner! What is he up to, pray? Can this be the explanation of Miriam’s escapade? I have a strong desire to blow a hole through that fellow!--Buenas noches, Senor de Mendoza! I am enchanted to have the unexpected honor of meeting you.” Senor de Mendoza turned round, disagreeably startled. It is only fair to explain that he had not come hither with any lover-like designs towards Miriam. Grace was the magnet that had drawn his steps to the Trednokes’ garden, and the truth is that that enterprising young lady was not without a suspicion that he might turn up. Could this information have been imparted to Freeman, it would have saved much trouble; but, as it was, not only did he jump to the conclusion that Don Miguel was his rival (and, seemingly, a not unsuccessful one), but a similar misgiving as to Freeman’s purposes towards Grace found its way into the heart of the Spaniard. It was a most perverse trick of fate. The two men contemplated each other, each after his own fashion: Don Miguel pale, glaring, bristling; Freeman smiling, insolent, hectoring. “Why are you here, senor?” demanded the former, at length. “Partly, senor, because such is my pleasure. Partly, to inform you that your presence here offends me, and to humbly request you to be off.” “Senor, this is an impertinence.” “Senor, one is not impertinent to prowling greasers. One admonishes them, and, if they do not obey, one chastises them.” “Do you talk of chastising Don Miguel de Mendoza? Senor, I will wash out that insult with your blood!”