“My friend,” I said, “if the saddle can be had, it is only just that you should have the profit. Take ten dollars, and if you buy it for me I will pay you two more.” This proposal pleased him greatly, while Cleta, the volatile, clapped her hands with delight. While Antonio prepared to go to his neighbour's after the saddle I went out to a solitary thorn-tree about fifty yards from the _rancho_, and, spreading my _poncho_ in the shade, lay down to sleep the siesta. Before the shepherd had been long gone I heard a great noise in the house, like banging on doors and on copper vessels, but took no notice, supposing it to proceed from Cleta engaged in some unusually noisy domestic operation. At length I heard a voice calling to me, “Señor! Señor!” Getting up, I went to the kitchen, but no person was there. Suddenly a loud knock was given on the door communicating with the second room. “Oh, my friend,” cried Cleta's voice behind it, “my ruffian of a husband has locked me in--can you let me out, do you think?” “Why has he locked you in?” I asked. “The question! Because he is a brute, of course. He always does it when he goes out. Is it not horrible?” “It only shows how fond he is of you,” I returned. “Are you so atrocious as to defend him? And I thought you had a heart--so handsome, too! When I saw you I said, Ah, had I married this man, what a happy life!” “Thank you for your good opinion,” I said. “I am very sorry you are locked in, because it prevents me from seeing your pretty face.” “Oh, you think it pretty? Then you _must_ let me out. I have put up my hair now, and look prettier than when you saw me.” “You look prettier with it down,” I answered. “Ah, down it goes again then!” she exclaimed.--“Yes, you are right, it does look best that way. Is it not like silk? You shall feel it when you liberate me.” “That I cannot do, Cleta mine. Your Antonio has taken away the key.” “Oh, cruel man! He left me no water, and I am perishing with thirst. What shall I do? Look, I will put my hand under the door for you to feel how hot it is; I am consumed with fever and thirst in this oven.” Presently her little brown hand came out at my feet, there being sufficient space between the floor and wood to pass it through. I stooped and took it in mine, and found it a hot, moist little hand, with a pulse beating very fast. “Poor child!” I said, “I will pour some water in a plate and pass it to you under the door.” “Oh, you are bad to insult me!” she cried. “What, am I a cat to drink water from a plate? I could cry my eyes out”; here followed sob-like sounds. “Besides,” she suddenly resumed, “it is fresh air, not water, I require. I am suffocated, I cannot breathe. Oh, dear friend, save me from fainting. Force back the door till the bolt slips out.” “No, no, Cleta, it cannot be done.” “What, with your strength! I could almost do it myself with my poor little hands. Open, open, open, before I faint.”