“What is it thou wishest me to understand, Reinaldo?”

“Do not look so stern, my Chonita.  Thou hast not yet heard me; and, although thou mayest be angry then, thou wilt reason later.  Thou art devoted to thy house, no?”

“Thou hast come here in the night to ask me such a question as that?”

“And thou lovest thy brother?”

“Reinaldo, thou hast drunken more mescal than Angelica.  Go back to thy bride.”  But, although she spoke lightly, she was uneasy.

“My sister, I never drank a drop of mescal in my life!  Listen.  It is our father’s wish, thy wish, my wish, that I become a great and distinguished man, an ornament to the house of Iturbi y Moncada, a star on the brow of California.  How can I accomplish this great and desirable end?  By the medium of politics only; our wars are so insignificant.  I have been debarred from the Departmental Junta by the enemy of our house, else would it have rung with my eloquence, and Mexico have known me to-day.  Yet I care little for the Junta.  I wish to go as diputado to Mexico; it is a grander arena.  Moreover, in that great capital I shall become a man of the world,—­which is necessary to control men.  That is his power,—­curse him!  And he—­he will not let me go there.  Even Alvarado listens to him.  The Departmental Junta is under his thumb.  I will never be anything but a caballero of Santa Barbara—­I, an Iturbi y Moncada, the last scion of a line illustrious in war, in diplomacy, in politics—­until he is either dead—­do not jump, my sister; it is not my intention to murder him and ruin my career—­or becomes my friend.”

“Canst thou not put thy meaning in fewer words?”

“My sister, he loves thee, and thou lovest thy brother and thy house.”

Chonita rose to her full height, and although he rose too, and was taller, she seemed to look down upon him.

“Thou wouldst have me marry him?  Is that thy meaning?”

“Ay.”  His voice trembled.  Under his swagger he was always a little afraid of the Doomswoman.

“Thou askest perjury and disloyalty and dishonor of an Iturbi y Moncada?”

“An Iturbi y Moncada asks it of an Iturbi y Moncada.  If the man is ready to bend his neck in sacrifice to the glory of his house, is it for the woman to think?”

Chonita stood grasping the back of her chair convulsively; it was the only sign of emotion she betrayed.  She knew that what he said was true:  that Estenega, for public and personal reasons, never would let him go to Mexico; he would permit no enemy at court.  But this knowledge drifted through her mind and out of it at the moment; she was struggling to hold down a hot wave of contempt rushing upward within her.  She clung to her traditions as frantically as she clung to her religion.

“Go,” she said, after a moment.

“Thou wilt think of what I have said?”

“I shall pray to forget it.”