"When you get it."

"Listen to me, Carlos. Is there no way of getting it?"

As the two men stared at each other they were horrible. The uncle was
always horrible; he was one of the very ugliest of Spaniards; he was a
brutal caricature of the national type. He had a low forehead, round face,
bulbous nose, shaking fat cheeks, insignificant chin, and only one eye, a
black and sleepy orb, which seemed to crawl like a snake. His exceedingly
dark skin was made darker by a singular bluish tinge which resulted from
heavy doses of nitrate of silver, taken as a remedy for epilepsy. His face
was, moreover, mottled with dusky spots, so that he reminded the spectator
of a frog or a toad. Just now he looked nothing less than poisonous; the
hungriest of cannibals would not have dared eat him.

"I am ruined," he went on groaning. "The war, the Yankees, the Apaches,
the devil--I am completely ruined. In another year I shall be sold out.
Then, my dear Carlos, you will have no home."

"_Sangre de Dios!_" growled Coronado. "Do you want to drive me to the
devil?

"O God! to force an old man to such an extremity!" continued Garcia. "It
is more than an old man is fitted to strive with. An old man--an old,
sick, worn-out man!"

"You are sure about the will?" demanded the nephew.

"I have a copy of it," said Garcia, eagerly. "Here it is. Read it. O Madre
de Dios! there is no doubt about it. I can trust my lawyer. It all goes to