“A late guest, no doubt.  You are white like the wall.  I think the low ceilings are not so good for your health, senor, as the sharp air of the mountains.  Ay, Dios!” The last words came beneath her breath, and she forgot Abel Hudson.  The front doors had been thrown open, and a caballero in riding-boots and a dark scrape wound about his tall figure had entered the room and flung his sombrero and saddle-bags into a corner.  It was Pablo Ignestria.

“At your feet, senora,” he said to Dona Luisa, who held out both hands, welcome on her charming face.  “I am an uninvited guest, but when I arrived at San Luis and found that all the town had come to one of Dona Luisa’s famous balls, I rode on, hoping that for friendship’s sake she would open her hospitable doors to a wanderer, and let him dance off the stiffness of a long ride.”

“You are welcome, welcome, Pablo,” said Dona Luisa.  “Go to the dining room and get a glass of aguardiente; then come back and dance until dawn.”

Ignestria left the room with Diego Quijas, but returned in a few moments and walked directly over to Eulogia, ignoring the men who stood about her.

“Give me this dance,” he whispered eagerly.  “I have something to say to thee.  I have purposely come from Monterey to say it.”

Eulogia was looking at him with angry eyes, her brain on fire.  But curiosity triumphed, and she put her hand on his shoulder as the musicians swept their guitars with lithe fingers, scraped their violins, and began the waltz.

“Eulogia!” exclaimed Ignestria; “dost thou suspect why I have returned?”

“Why should I suspect what I have not thought about?”

“Ay, Eulogia!  Art thou as saucy as ever?  But I will tell thee, beloved one.  The poor girl who bore my name is dead, and I have come to beg an answer to my letter.  Ay, little one, I feel thy love.  Why couldst thou not have sent me one word?  I was so angry when passed week after week and no answer came, that in a fit of spleen I married the poor sick girl.  And what I suffered, Eulogia, after that mad act!  Long ago I told myself that I should have come back for my answer, that you had sworn you would write no letter; I should have let you have your little caprices, but I did not reason until—­”

“I answered your letter!” exclaimed Eulogia, furiously.  “You know that I answered it!  You only wished to humble me because I had sworn I would write to no man.  Traitor!  I hate you!  You were engaged to the girl all the time you were here.”

“Eulogia!  Believe!  Believe!”

“I would not believe you if you kissed the cross!  You said to yourself, ’That little coquette, I will teach her a lesson.  To think the little chit should fancy an elegant Montereno could fall in love with her!’ Ah! ha!  Oh, Dios!  I hate thee, thou false man-of-the-world!  Thou art the very picture of the men I have read about in the books of the Senor Dumas; and yet I was fooled by thy first love-word!  But I never loved you.  Never, never!  It was only a fancy—­because you were from Monterey.  I am glad you did not get my letter, for I hate you!  Mother of Christ!  I hate you!”