Finally came a pause in Manuel’s bombardment, and something like this conversation took place between the cooler actors: 

Miguel (thoughtfully).  “When was it thou didst petition for lands in the valley, friend Victor?”

Victor (amazedly).  “Never!  It is a sterile waste.  Am I a fool?”

Miguel (softly).  “Thou didst.  Of thy Governor, Micheltorena.  I have seen the application.”

Victor (beginning to appreciate a rodential odor).  “Si!  I had forgotten.  Art thou sure it was in the valley?”

Miguel (persuasively).  “In the valley and up the falda."*

* Falda, or valda, i. e., that part of the skirt of a woman’s robe that breaks upon the ground, and is also applied to the final slope of a hill, from the angle that it makes upon the level plain.

Victor (with decision).  “Certainly.  Of a verity,—­the falda likewise.”

Miguel (eying Victor).  “And yet thou hadst not the grant.  Painful is it that it should have been burned with the destruction of the other archives, by the Americanos at Monterey.”

Victor (cautiously feeling his way).  “Possiblemente.”

Miguel.  “It might be wise to look into it.”

Victor (bluntly).  “As why?”

Miguel.  “For our good and thine, friend Victor.  We bring thee a discovery; thou bringest us thy skill, thy experience, thy government knowledge,—­thy Custom House paper."*

     * Grants, applications, and official notifications, under
     the Spanish Government, were drawn on a stamped paper known
     as custom House paper.

Manuel (breaking in drunkenly).  “But for what?  We are Mexicans.  Are we not fated?  We shall lose.  Who shall keep the Americanos off?”

Miguel.  “We shall take one American in!  Ha! seest thou?  This American comrade shall bribe his courts, his corregidores.  After a little he shall supply the men who invent the machine of steam, the mill, the furnace, eh?”

Victor.  “But who is he,—­not to steal?”

Miguel.  “He is that man of Ireland, a good Catholic, at Tres Pinos.”

Victor and Manuel (omnes).  “Roscommon?”

Miguel.  “Of the same.  We shall give him a share for the provisions, for the tools, for the aguardiente.  It is of the Irish that the Americanos have great fear.  It is of them that the votes are made,—­that the President is chosen.  It is of him that they make the Alcalde in San Francisco.  And we are of the Church like him.”

They said “Bueno” altogether, and for the moment appeared to be upheld by a religious enthusiasm,—­a joint confession of faith that meant death, destruction, and possibly forgery, as against the men who thought otherwise.

This spiritual harmony did away with all practical consideration and doubt.  “I have a little niece,” said Victor, “whose work with the pen is marvellous.  If one says to her, ’Carmen, copy me this, or the other one,’—­even if it be copper-plate,—­look you it is done, and you cannot know of which is the original.  Madre de Dios! the other day she makes me a rubric* of the Governor, Pio Pico, the same, identical.  Thou knowest her, Miguel.  She asked concerning thee yesterday.”