“Me, sah,” returned Coronado, imitating, and imitating perfectly, the accent of the steward, who meantime had gone forward, talking and sniggering to himself, after an idiotic way that he had.

The door opened a trifle, and Coronado instantly slipped the toe of his little boot into the crack, at the same time saying in his natural tone, “My dear uncle!”

Seeing that he was discovered, Garcia gave his nephew entrance, closed the door after him, locked it, and sat down trembling on the edge of the lower berth, groaning and almost whimpering, “Ah, my son!  Ah, my dear Carlos!  Oh, what a life I have to lead!  Madre de Dios, what a life!  I thought you were one of my creditors.  I did indeed, my dear Carlos, my son.”

“I thought you went back to Santa Fe” was Coronado’s reply.

“No, I did not go; I started, but I came back,” mumbled Garcia.  Then, plucking up a little spirit, he turned his one eye for a moment on his nephew’s face, and added, “Why should I go to Santa Fe?  I had no business there.  My business is here.”

“But after your attempt at the hacienda?”

“My attempt!  I made no attempt.  All that was a mistake.  Because I was sick, I was frightened and did not know what to do.  I ran away because you told me to run.  I had given her nothing.  Yes, I did put something in her chocolate, but it was my medicine.  I meant to put in sugar, but I made a mistake and went to the wrong pocket, the pocket of my medicine.  That was it, Carlos.  I give you my word, word of a hidalgo, word of a Christian.”

It was the same explanation which Coronado had invented to forestall suspicions at the hacienda.  It was surely a wonderful coincidence of lying, and shows how great minds work alike.  Vexed and angry as the nephew was, he could scarcely help smiling.

“My dear uncle!” he exclaimed, grasping Garcia’s pudgy hand melodramatically.  “The very thing that occurred to me!  I told them so.”

“Did you?” replied the old man, not much believing it.  “Then all is well.”

He wanted to ask how it was that Clara had survived her dose; but of course curiosity on that subject must not find vent; it would be equivalent to a confession.

“Where is she going?” were his next words.

“To Fort Yuma.”

“To Fort Yuma!  What for?”

“I may as well tell it,” burst out Coronado angrily.  “She is going there to nurse that officer.  He escaped, but he has been sick, and she will go.”

“She must not go,” whispered Garcia.  “Oh, the ——.”  And here he called Clara a string of names which cannot be repeated.  “She shall not go there,” he continued.  “She will marry him.  Then the property is gone, and we are ruined.  Oh, the ——.”  And then came another assortment of violent and vile epithets, such as are not found in dictionaries.

Coronado was anxious to divert and dissipate a rage which might make trouble; and as soon as he could get in a word, he asked, “But what have you been doing, my uncle?”