This spiritual harmony did away with all practical consideration and
doubt. "I have a little niece," said Victor, "whose work with the pen
is marvellous. If one says to her, 'Carmen, copy me this, or the other
one,'--even if it be copper-plate,--look you it is done, and you cannot
know of which is the original. Madre de Dios! the other day she makes me
a rubric* of the Governor, Pio Pico, the same, identical. Thou knowest
her, Miguel. She asked concerning thee yesterday."

* The Spanish "rubric" is the complicated flourish attached
to a signature, and is as individual and characteristic as
the handwriting.

With the embarrassment of an underbred man, Miguel tried to appear
unconcerned, but failed dismally. Indeed, I fear that the black eyes of
Carmen had already done their perfect and accepted work, and had partly
induced the application for Victor's aid. He, however, dissembled so far
as to ask:

"But will she not know?"

"She is a child."

"But will she not talk?"

"Not if I say nay, and if thou--eh, Miguel?"

This bit of flattery (which, by the 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?