“Only the beautiful romances of the Senor Dumas.  I have seen no others, for there are not many books in San Luis.  Have you read others?”

“A great many others.  Two wonderful Spanish books—­’Don Quixote de la Mancha’ and ‘Gil Blas,’ and the romances of Sir Waltere Scote—­a man of England, and some lives of famous men, senorita.  A great man lent them to me—­the greatest of our Governors—­Alvarado.”

“And you will lend them to me?” cried Eulogia, forgetting her coquetry, “I want to read them.”

“Aha!  Those cool eyes can flash.  That even little voice can break in two.  By the holy Evangelists, senorita, thou shalt have every book I possess.”

“Will the Senorita Dona Eulogia favour us with a song?”

Don Carmelo was bowing before her, a guitar in his hand, his wrathful eyes fixed upon Don Pablo.

“Yes,” said Eulogia.

She took the guitar and sang a love-song in a manner which can best be described as no manner at all; her expression never changed, her voice never warmed.  At first the effect was flat, then the subtle fascination of it grew until the very memory of impassioned tones was florid and surfeiting.  When she finished, Ignestria’s heart was hammering upon the steel in which he fancied he had prisoned it.

IV

“Well,” said Eulogia to Padre Moraga two weeks later, “am I not La Favorita?”

“Thou art, thou little coquette.  Thou hast a power over men which thou must use with discretion, my Eulogia.  Tell thy beads three times a day and pray that thou mayest do no harm.”

“I wish to do harm, my father, for men have broken the hearts of women for ages—­”

“Chut, chut, thou baby!  Men are not so black as they are painted.  Harm no one, and the world will be better that thou hast lived in it.”

“If I scratch, fewer women will be scratched,” and she raised her shoulders beneath the flowered muslin of her gown, swung her guitar under her arm, and walked down the grove, the silver leaves shining above her smoky hair.

The padre had bidden all the young people of the upper class to a picnic in the old mission garden.  Girls in gay muslins and silk rebosos were sitting beneath the arches of the corridor or flitting under the trees where the yellow apricots hung among the green leaves.  Languid and sparkling faces coquetted with caballeros in bright calico jackets and knee-breeches laced with silken cord, their slender waists girt with long sashes hanging gracefully over the left hip.  The water rilled in the winding creek, the birds carolled in the trees; but above all rose the sound of light laughter and sweet strong voices.

They took their dinner behind the arches, at a table the length of the corridor, and two of the young men played the guitar and sang, whilst the others delighted their keen palates with the goods the padre had provided.