“Well, I reckon we kin about call the thing fixed,” said Senor Brown, with a large wave of the hand, suggesting a sweeping away of all trivial details.  “Ez I was saying to the Don yer, when two high-toned gents like you and him come together in a delicate matter of this kind, it ain’t no hoss trade nor sharp practice.  The Don is that lofty in principle that he’s willin’ to sacrifice his affections for the good of the gal; and you, on your hand, kalkilate to see all he’s done for her, and go your whole pile better.  You’ll make the legal formalities good.  I reckon that old Injin woman who can swear to the finding of the baby on the shore will set things all right yet.  For the matter o’ that, if you want anything in the way of a certificate, I’m on hand always.”

“Juanita and myself are at your disposition, caballeros,” said Don Juan, with a grave exaltation.  “Never let it be said that the Mexican nation was outdone by the great Americanos in deeds of courtesy and affection.  Let it rather stand that Juanita was a sacred trust put into my hands years ago by the goddess of American liberty, and nurtured in the Mexican eagle’s nest.  Is it not so, my soul?” he added, more humanly, to the girl, when he had quite recovered from the intoxication of his own speech.  “We love thee, little one, but we keep our honor.”

“There’s nothing mean about the old man,” said Brown, admiringly, with a slight dropping of his left eyelid; “his head is level, and he goes with his party.”

“Thou takest my daughter, Senor Cranch,” continued the old man, carried away by his emotion; “but the American nation gives me a son.”

“You know not what you say, father,” said the young girl, angrily, exasperated by a slight twinkle in the American’s eye.

“Not so,” said Cranch.  “Perhaps one of the American nation may take him at his word.”

“Then, caballeros, you will, for the moment at least, possess yourselves of the house and its poor hospitality,” said Don Juan, with time-honored courtesy, producing the rustic key of the gate of the patio.  “It is at your disposition, caballeros,” he repeated, leading the way as his guests passed into the corridor.

Two hours passed.  The hills were darkening on their eastern slopes; the shadows of the few poplars that sparsedly dotted the dusty highway were falling in long black lines that looked like ditches on the dead level of the tawny fields; the shadows of slowly moving cattle were mingling with their own silhouettes, and becoming more and more grotesque.  A keen wind rising in the hills was already creeping from the canada as from the mouth of a funnel, and sweeping the plains.  Antonio had forgathered with the servants, had pinched the ears of the maids, had partaken of aguardiente, had saddled the mules,—­Antonio was becoming impatient.