“Aha!  And how dost thou know whether he did or not?  I thought thy face was behind that big black fan.”

“I saw him through the sticks.  What does ‘By Jove’ mean, my Santiago?”

He enlightened her, then stood up eagerly.  Another bull had been brought in, and one of the vaqueros was to fight him.  During the next two hours Santiago gave little thought to his sister, and sometimes her long black lashes swept above the top of her fan.  When five or six bulls had stamped and roared and gored and died, the guests of Los Quervos went home to chocolate and siesta, the others returned to their various ranchos.

But Dario took no nap that day.  Twice he had seen an Indian girl at Elena’s window, and as the house settled down to temporary calm, he saw the girl go to the rancheria among the willows.  He wrote a note, and followed her as soon as he dared.  She wore a calico frock, exactly like a hundred others, and her stiff black hair cut close to her neck in the style enforced by Dona Jacoba; but Dario recognized her imitation of Elena’s walk and carriage.  He was very nervous, but he managed to stroll about and make his visit appear one of curiosity.  As he passed the girl he told her to follow him, and in a few moments they were alone in a thicket.  He had hard work to persuade her to take the note to her mistress, for she stood in abject awe of Dona Jacoba; but love of Elena and sympathy for the handsome stranger prevailed, and the girl went off with the missive.

The staircase led from Don Roberto’s room to Dona Jacoba’s; but the lady’s all-seeing eyes were closed, and the master was snoring in his library.  Malia tiptoed by both, and Elena, who had been half asleep, sat up, trembling with excitement, and read the impassioned request for an interview.  She lifted her head and listened, panting a little.  Then she ran to the door and looked into the library.  Her father was sound asleep; there could he no doubt of that.  She dared not write an answer, but she closed the door and put her lips to the girl’s ear.

“Tell him,” she murmured, horrified at her own boldness—­“tell him to take me out for the contradanza tonight.  There is no other chance.”  And the girl went back and delivered the message.

V

The guests and family met again at supper; but yards of linen and mounds of plate, spirited, quickly turning heads, flowered muslin gowns and silken jackets, again separated Dario and Elena.  He caught a glimpse now and again of her graceful head turning on its white throat, or of her sad pure profile shining before her mother’s stern old face.