“Yes, yes,” he agreed, carelessly.  “Senor Austin and I must know each other better and become friends.”

“That is hardly possible at present.  When the war is over—­”

“Bah!  This war is nothing.  I go where I please.  You would be surprised to greet me at Las Palmas some day soon, eh?  When you tell your husband what a friend I am he would be glad to see me, would he not?”

“Why—­of course.  But surely you wouldn’t dare—­”

“And why not?  Las Palmas is close to the river, and my troops are in Romero, directly opposite.  Mexico is not at war with your country, and when I am in citizen’s clothes I am merely an ordinary person.  I have made inquiries, and they tell me Las Palmas is beautiful, heavenly, and that you are the one who transformed it.  I believe them.  You have the power to transform all things, even a man’s heart and soul.  No wonder you are called ‘The Lone Star.’  But wait.  You will see how constantly I think of you.”  Longorio drew from his pocket several photographs of the Austin ranch-house.

“Where did you get those?” Alaire asked in astonishment.

“Ah!  My secret.  See!  They are badly worn already, for I keep them next my bosom.”

“We entertain very few guests at Las Palmas,” she murmured, uncomfortably.

“I know.  I know a great deal.”

“It would scarcely be safe for you to call; the country is full of Candeleristas—­”

“Cattle!” said the officer, with a careless shrug.  “Did not that great poet Byron swim an ocean to see a lovely lady?  Well, I, too, am a poet.  I have beautiful fancies; songs of love run through my mind.  Those Englishmen know nothing of passion.  Your American men are cold.  Only a Mexican can love.  We have fire in our veins, senora.”

To these perfervid protestations Dolores listened with growing fright; her eyes were wide and they were fixed hypnotically upon the speaker; she presented much the appearance of a rabbit charmed by a serpent.  But to Longorio she did not exist; she was a chattel, a servant, and therefore devoid of soul or intelligence, or use beyond that of serving her mistress.

Thinking to put an end to these blandishments, Alaire undertook to return the general’s ring, with the pretense that she considered it no more than a talisman loaned her for the time being.  But it was a task to make Longorio accept it.  He was shocked, offended, hurt; he declared the ring to be of no value; it was no more than a trifling evidence of his esteem.  But Alaire was firm.

“Your customs are different to ours,” she told him.  “An American woman is not permitted to accept valuable presents, and this would cause disagreeable comment.”

At such a thought the general’s finest sensibilities were wounded, but nothing, it seemed, could permanently dampen his ardor, and he soon proceeded to press his attentions with even more vehemence than before.  He had brought Alaire candies of American manufacture, Mexican sweetmeats of the finest variety, a beautiful silken shawl, and at midday the grizzled teniente came with a basket of lunch containing dainties and fruits and vacuum bottles with hot and cold drinks.