“Patience, my friend, patience!  Ah, blessed St. Anthony, what these Americans are!  Listen.  For what you shall do, I do not inquire.  The question is to me what I”—­he emphasized the pronoun by tapping himself on the breast—­“I, Jose Santierra, will do.  Well, I shall tell you.  To-day, nothing.  To-morrow, nothing.  For a week, for a month, nothing!  After, we shall see.”

Poindexter paused thoughtfully.  “Will you give your word, Don Jose, that you will not press the claim for a month?”

“Truly, on one condition.  Observe!  I do not ask you for an equal promise, that you will not take this time to defend yourself.”  He shrugged his shoulder.  “No!  It is only this.  You shall promise that during that time the Senora Tucker shall remain ignorant of this document.”

Poindexter hesitated a moment.  “I promise,” he said at last.

“Good.  Adios, Don Marco.”

“Adios, Don Jose”

The Spaniard put spurs to his mustang and galloped off in the direction of Los Gatos.  The lawyer remained for a moment gazing on his retreating but victorious figure.  For the first time the old look of humorous toleration with which Mr. Poindexter was in the habit of regarding all human infirmity gave way to something like bitterness.  “I might have guessed it,” he said, with a slight rise of color.  “He’s an old fool; and she—­well, perhaps it’s all the better for her!” He glanced backwards almost tenderly in the direction of Los Cuervos, and then turned his head towards the embarcadero.

As the afternoon wore on, a creaking, antiquated oxcart arrived at Los Cuervos, bearing several articles of furniture, and some tasteful ornaments from Los Gatos, at the same time that a young Mexican girl mysteriously appeared in the kitchen, as a temporary assistant to the decrepit Concha.  These were both clearly attributable to Don Jose, whose visit was not so remote but that these delicate attentions might have been already projected before Mrs. Tucker had declined them, and she could not, without marked discourtesy, return them now.  She did not wish to seem discourteous; she would like to have been more civil to this old gentleman, who still retained the evidences of a picturesque and decorous past, and a repose so different from the life that was perplexing her.  Reflecting that if he bought the estate these things would be ready to his hand, and with a woman’s instinct recognizing their value in setting off the house to other purchasers’ eyes, she took a pleasure in tastefully arranging them, and even found herself speculating how she might have enjoyed them herself had she been able to keep possession of the property.  After all, it would not have been so lonely if refined and gentle neighbors, like this old man, would have sympathized with her; she had an instinctive feeling that, in their own hopeless decay and hereditary unfitness for this new civilization, they would have been more tolerant of