She was as it were reeling in her saddle, when a truly Spanish idea saved
her.

"Muñoz!" she exclaimed. "Coronado, you forget my grandfather. He should
know of this."

Although the man was unaccustomed to start, he drew back as if a ghost had
confronted him; and even when he recovered from his transitory emotion, he
did not at first know how to answer her. It would not do to say, "Muñoz is
dead," and much less to add, "You are his heir."

"We are Americans," he at last argued. "Spanish customs are dead and
buried. Can't you speak for yourself on a matter which concerns you and me
alone?"

"Coronado, I think it would not be right," she replied, holding firmly to
her position. "It is probable that my grandfather would be better pleased
to have this matter referred to him. I ought to consider him, and you must
let me do so."

"I submit," he bowed, seeing that there was no help for it, and deciding
to make a grace of necessity. "It pains me, but I submit. Let me hope that
you will not let this pass from your mind. Some day, when it is proper, I
shall speak again."

He was not wholly dissatisfied, for he trusted that henceforward her head
would be full of him, and he had not much hoped to gain more in a first
effort.

"I shall always be proud and gratified at the compliment you have paid