Joaquin liked the privacy of his room, but he had all the hospitality of his race.  He went at once to the stranger, walking a little heavily, for he was no longer young and slender, but with a cordial smile on his shrewd warmly coloured face.

“The house is at your service, Don Dario,” he said, shaking the newcomer’s hand.  “We are honoured that you come in time for my sister’s wedding.  It distresses me that I cannot offer you the best room in the house, but, Dios! we have a company here.  I have only the half of my poor bed to offer you, but if you will deign to accept that—­”

“I am miserable, wretched, to put you to such inconvenience—­”

“Never think of such a thing, my friend.  Nothing could give me greater happiness than to try to make you comfortable in my poor room.  Will you come now and take a siesta before supper?”

Dario followed him to the house, protesting at every step, and Joaquin threw open the door of one of the porch rooms.

“At your service, senor—­everything at your service.”

He went to one corner of the room and kicked aside a pile of saddles, displaying a small hillock of gold in ten-and fifty-dollar slugs.  “You will find about thirty thousand dollars there.  We sold some cattle a days ago.  I beg that you will help yourself.  It is all at your service.  I will now go and send you some aguardiente, for you must be thirsty.”  And he went out and left his guest alone.

Dario threw himself face downward on the bed.  He was in love, and the lady had kissed another man as if she had no love to spare.  True, it was but her brother she had kissed, but would she have eyes for any one else during a stranger’s brief visit?  And how, in this crowded house, could he speak a word with her alone?  And that terrible dragon of a mother!  He sprang to his feet as an Indian servant entered with a glass of aguardiente.  When he had burnt his throat, he felt better.  “I will stay until I have won her, if I remain a month,” he vowed.  “It will be some time before Don Roberto will care to talk business.”

But Don Roberto was never too occupied to talk business.  After he had taken his bath and siesta, he sent a servant to request Don Dario Castanares to come up to the library, where he spent most of his time, received all his visitors, reprimanded his children, and took his after-dinner naps.  It was a luxurious room for the Californian of that day.  A thick red English carpet covered the floor; one side of the room was concealed by a crowded bookcase, and the heavy mahogany furniture was handsomely carved, although upholstered with horse-hair.

In an hour every detail of the transaction had been disposed of, and Dario had traded a small rancho for a herd of cattle.  The young man’s face was very long when the last detail had been arranged, but he had forgotten that his host was as Californian as himself.  Don Roberto poured him a brimming glass of angelica and gave him a hearty slap on the back.