“I told you I enjoyed being a savage for once in my life.” Over made no reply, and if Lydia’s glance had not dropped to the uneven pavement, she would have seen his eyes open wide with incredulous amazement and then flash with anger. As it was, she wondered why he hurried her back to the hotel and then practically ordered her up to her room. He stood on the lower step of the stair until he heard her greet Jane; then he left the hotel and walked rapidly down the street again. In a moment he met Catalina. “Oh,” he said, with an awkward attempt at masculine indifference, although his eyes were blazing. “Are you out—alone—as late as this? Isn’t it rather risky?” “I’ve been walking with Jesus Maria,” she replied, coolly. “What a baby you were to walk off through these lonely streets with Lydia! I supposed, of course, that you would talk to her in the hotel. Don’t you know that man would have been mad with jealousy if he had seen you? Then there would have been a fine rough-and-tumble if he hadn’t got a knife into your back first. He came along with that everlasting guitar under his arm just after you left, and I told him that Lydia was ill, and asked him to take a walk with me. We’d better give him the slip as soon as possible; he’s off his head about her.” “What a little brick you are! What did he have to say?” “I explained to him that he could never hope to marry Lydia, and elevated the family to the ancient aristocracy of America. It made no impression on him whatever. He expressed contempt for the entire race, barring Lydia, whom he takes to be an angel. I concluded that disloyalty was the better part, and told him that Lydia was nothing but a little American flirt trying to have a sensation. That made even less impression on him—he believes that she is ready to fly with him at a moment’s notice. I did more harm than good, and I shall speak to Cousin Lyman to-night.” Over stared hard at her. “That was very brave of you. Aren’t you afraid of anything?” “Not of greasers!” replied the Californian. “I’ve dealt with them all my life. I treated this one as an equal, and made him forget Lydia in talking about himself. He’s a revolutionist, hates the queen because she doesn’t go to bull-fights, despises the king, anathematizes all monarchies and aristocracies, and talks like a Fourth-of-July orator about the days when Spain will be a republic, and one of his own sort—possibly himself—will be president. I never heard so much brag in America. But he’s full of pluck. Now, you go and call Cousin Lyman out into the hall, and we’ll have a consultation.” XII