In some respects Plato was right.  David Lorimer had inherited, both from father and mother, an unruly temper.  His father was a Scot, dour and self-willed; his mother had been a Spanish woman, of San Antonio—­a daughter of the grandee family of Yturris.  Their marriage had not been a happy one, and the fiery emotional Southern woman had fretted her life away against the rugged strength of the will which opposed hers.  David remembered his mother well, and idolized her memory; right or wrong, he had always espoused her quarrel, and when she died she left, between father and son, a great gulf.

He had been hard to manage then, but at twenty-two he was beyond all control, excepting such as his cousin, Lulu Yturri, exercised over him.  But this love, the most pure and powerful influence he acknowledged, had been positively forbidden.  The elder Lorimer declared that there had been too much Spanish blood in the family; and it is likely his motives commended themselves to his own conscience.  It was certain that the mere exertion of his will in the matter gave him a pleasure he would not forego.  Yet he was theoretically a religious man, devoted to the special creed he approved, and rigidly observing such forms of worship as made any part of it.  But the law of love had never yet been revealed to him; he had feared and trembled at the fiery Mount of Sinai, but he had not yet drawn near to the tenderer influences of Calvary.

He was a rich man also.  Broad acres waved with his corn and cotton, and he counted his cattle on the prairies by tens of thousands; but nothing in his mode of life indicated wealth.  The log-house, stretching itself out under gigantic trees, was of the usual style of Texan architecture—­broad passages between every room, sweeping from front to rear; and low piazzas, festooned with flowery vines, shading it on every side.  All around it, under the live oaks, were scattered the negro cabins, their staring whitewash looking picturesque enough under the hanging moss and dark green foliage.  But, simple as the house was, it was approached by lordly avenues, shaded with black-jack and sweet gum and chincapin, interwoven with superb magnolias and gorgeous tulip trees.

The Scot in a foreign country, too, often steadily cultivates his national peculiarities.  James Lorimer was a Scot of this type.  As far as it was possible to do so in that sunshiny climate, he introduced the grey, sombre influence of the land of mists and east winds.  His household was ruled with stern gravity; his ranch was a model of good management; and though few affected his society, he was generally relied upon and esteemed; for, though opinionated, egotistical, and austere, there was about him a grand honesty and a sense of strength that would rise to every occasion.

And so great is the influence of any genuine nature, that David loved his father in a certain fashion.  The creed he held was a hard one; but when he called his family and servants together, and unflinchingly taught it, David, even in his worst moods, was impressed with his sincerity and solemnity.  There was between them plenty of ground on which they could have stood hand in hand, and learned to love one another; but a passionate authority on the one hand, and a passionate independence on the other, kept them far apart.