“Of a verity, yes,” replied Miguel, “thou dost remember it was Jovita Castro who, for her Americano lover, betrayed the Sobriente claim.  It is only with us, my Pedro, that the Mexican spirit, the real God and Liberty, yet lives!”

They shook hands nobly and with sentimental fervor, and then went to work, i. e., the rummaging over the trunks, drawers, and portmanteaus of the poor little painter, Carmen de Haro, and even ripped up the mattress of her virginal cot.  But they found not what they sought.

“What is that yonder on the easel, covered with a cloth?” said Miguel:  “it is a trick of these artists to put their valuables together.”

Pedro strode to the easel and tore away the muslin curtain that veiled it; then uttered a shriek that appalled his comrade and brought him to his side.

“In the name of God,” said Miguel hastily, “are you trying to alarm the house?”

The ex-vaquero was trembling like a child.  “Look,” he said hoarsely, “look, do you see?  It is the hand of God,” and fainted on the floor!

Miguel looked.  It was Carmen’s partly-finished sketch of the deserted furnace.  The figure of Concho, thrown out strongly by the camp fire, occupied the left foreground.  But to balance her picture she had evidently been obliged to introduce another,—­the face and figure of Pedro, on all fours, creeping towards the sleeping man.

PART III.—­IN CONGRESS

CHAPTER X

WHO LOBBIED FOR IT

It was a midsummer’s day in Washington.  Even at early morning, while the sun was yet level with the faces of pedestrians in its broad, shadeless avenues, it was insufferably hot.  Later the avenues themselves shone like the diverging rays of another sun,—­the Capitol,—­a thing to be feared by the naked eye.  Later yet it grew hotter, and then a mist arose from the Potomac, and blotted out the blazing arch above, and presently piled up along the horizon delusive thunder clouds, that spent their strength and substance elsewhere, and left it hotter than before.  Towards evening the sun came out invigorated, having cleared the heavenly brow of perspiration, but leaving its fever unabated.

The city was deserted.  The few who remained apparently buried themselves from the garish light of day in some dim, cloistered recess of shop, hotel, or restaurant; and the perspiring stranger, dazed by the outer glare, who broke in upon their quiet, sequestered repose, confronted collarless and coatless specters of the past, with fans in their hands, who, after dreamily going through some perfunctory business, immediately retired to sleep after the stranger had gone.  Congressmen and Senators had long since returned to their several constituencies with the various information that the country was going to ruin, or that the outlook never was more hopeful and cheering, as the tastes