own signature, for he was his friend; but have a care, Carmen! that you
spoil it not by the opening of your red lips. When he is fooled, I
will tell him of this marvel,--this niece of mine, and he shall buy her
pictures. Eh, little one?" and he gave her the avuncular caress, i. e.,
a pat of the hand on either cheek, and a kiss. Miguel envied him, but
cupidity outgeneraled Cupid, and presently the conversation flagged,
until a convenient recollection of Victor's--that himself and
comrade were due at the Posada del Toros at 10 o'clock--gave them the
opportunity to retire. But not without a chance shot from Carmen. "Tell
to me," she said, half to Victor and half to Miguel, "what has chanced
with Concho? He was ever ready to bring to me flowers from the mountain,
and insects and birds. Thou knowest how he would sit, oh, my uncle, and
talk to me of the rare rocks he had seen, and the bears and the evil
spirits, and now he comes no longer, my Concho! How is this?
Nothing evil has befallen him, surely?" and her drooping lids closed
half-pathetically.

Miguel's jealousy took fire. "He is drunk, Senorita, doubtless, and
has forgotten not only thee but, mayhap, his mule and pack! It is his
custom, ha! ha!"

The red died out of Carmen's ripe lips, and she shut them together with
a snap like a steel purse. The dove had suddenly changed to a hawk; the
child-girl into an antique virago; the spirit hitherto dimly outlined
in her face, of some shrewish Garcia ancestress, came to the fore. She
darted a quick look at her uncle, and then, with her little hands on her
rigid lips, strode with two steps up to Miguel.

"Possibly, O Senor Miguel Dominguez Perez (a profound courtesy here), it
is as thou sayest. Drunkard Concho may be; but, drunk or sober, he never