way, was a lie, for Victor's niece
did not incline favorably to Miguel), had its effect. They shook hands
over the table. "But," said Miguel, "what is to be done must be done
now." "At the moment," said Victor, "and thou shalt see it done. Eh?
Does it content thee? then come!"

Miguel nodded to Manuel. "We will return in an hour; wait thou here."

They filed out into the dark, irregular street. Fate led them to pass
the office of Dr. Guild at the moment that Concho mounted his horse.
The shadows concealed them from their rival, but they overheard the last
injunctions of the President to the unlucky Concho.

"Thou hearest?" said Miguel, clutching his companion's arm.

"Yes," said Victor. "But let him ride, my friend; in one hour we shall
have that that shall arrive YEARS before him," and with a complacent
chuckle they passed unseen and unheard until, abruptly turning a corner,
they stopped before a low adobe house.

It had once been a somewhat pretentious dwelling, but had evidently
followed the fortunes of its late owner, Don Juan Briones, who had
offered it as a last sop to the three-headed Cerberus that guarded the
El Refugio Plutonean treasures, and who had swallowed it in a single
gulp. It was in very bad case. The furrows of its red-tiled roof looked
as if they were the results of age and decrepitude. Its best room had a
musty smell; there was the dampness of deliquescence in its slow decay,
but the Spanish Californians were sensible architects, and its massive
walls and partitions defied the earthquake thrill, and all the year
round kept an even temperature within.

Victor led Miguel through a low anteroom into a plainly-furnished
chamber, where Carmen sat painting.

Now Mistress Carmen was a bit of a painter, in a pretty little way, with
all the vague longings of an artist, but without, I fear, the artist's
steadfast soul. She recognized beauty and form as a child might, without
understanding their meaning, and somehow failed to make them even
interpret her woman's moods, which surely were nature's too. So she
painted everything with this innocent lust of the eye,--flowers, birds,
insects, landscapes, and figures,--with a joyous fidelity, but no
particular poetry. The bird never sang to her but one song, the flowers
or trees spake but one language, and her skies never brightened except
in color. She came out strong on the Catholic saints, and would toss
you up a cleanly-shaven Aloysius, sweetly destitute