“I am half asleep,” he said.  “Is it about those cattle?  Joaquin knows as much about them as I do.”

Dario had not been asked to sit down, and he stood before Don Roberto feeling a little nervous, and pressing his hand against the mantelpiece.

“I do not wish to speak of cattle, senor.”

“No?  What then?” The old man’s face was flushed with wine, and his shaggy brows were drooping heavily.

“It is—­it is about Elena.”

The brows lifted a little.

“Elena?”

“Yes, senor.  We love each other very much.  I wish to ask your permission that we may be married.”

The brows went up with a rush; the stiff hairs stood out like a roof above the cold angry eyes.  For a moment Don Roberto stared at the speaker as if he had not heard; then he sprang to his feet, his red face purple.

“Get out of my house, you damned vagabond!” he shouted.  “Go as fast as God Almighty’ll let you.  You marry my daughter,—­you damned Indian!  I wouldn’t give her to you if you were pure-blooded Castilian, much less to a half-breed whelp.  And you have dared to make love to her.  Go!  Do you hear?  Or I’ll kick you down the stairs!”

Dario drew himself up and looked back at his furious host with a pride that matched his own.  The blood was smarting in his veins, but he made no sign and walked down the stair.

Don Roberto went at once in search of his wife.  Failing to find her, he walked straight into the sala, and taking Elena by the arm before the assembled guests, marched her upstairs and into her room, and locked the door with his key.

Elena fell upon the floor and sobbed with rebellious mortification and terror.  Her father had not uttered a word, but she knew the meaning of his summary act, and other feelings soon gave way to despair.  That she should never see Dario Castanares again was certain, and she wept and prayed with all the abandon of her Spanish nature.  A picture of the Virgin hung over the bed, and she raised herself on her knees and lifted her clasped hands to it beseechingly.  With her tumbled hair and white face, her streaming upturned eyes and drawn mouth, she looked more like the Mater Dolorosa than the expressionless print she prayed to.

“Mary!  Mother!” she whispered, “have mercy on thy poor little daughter.  Give him to me.  I ask for nothing else in this world.  I do not care for gold or ranchos, only to be his wife.  I am so lonely, my mother, for even Santiago thinks of so many other things than of me.  I only want to be loved, and no one else will ever love me who can make me love him.  Ay! give him to me! give him to me!” And she threw herself on her face once more, and sobbed until her tears were exhausted.  Then she dragged herself to the window and leaned over the deep seat.  Perhaps she might have one glimpse of him as he rode away.