varro snatched his hat, and
hurried down the street. He had not proceeded far, when a hand was
laid upon his arm, and turning, with somewhat pugnacious intentions,
encountered Father Mazzolin's piercing black eyes.

"Bueno tarde, Padre."

The black eyes rested on Nevarro with an expression which seemed to
demand an explanation of his choler. Manuel moved uneasily; the hot
blood glowed in his swarthy cheek, and swelled like cords on the
darkened brow.

"Did you wish to speak with me, Padre?"

"Even so, my son. Thou art troubled, come unto one who can give thee
comfort."

They were standing before the door of the harkell occupied by the
priest: he opened it and drew Manuel in.

An hour later they emerged from the house. All trace of anger was
removed from Nevarro's brow, and Father Mazzolin's countenance wore
the impenetrable cast he ever assumed in public. It was his business
expression, the mask behind which he secretly drew the strings, and
lured his dupes into believing him a disinterested and self-denying
pastor, whose only aim in life was to promote the welfare and
happiness of his flock.

When Don Garcia sat that night, _a la Turk_, on a buffalo-robe before
his door, puffing his cigarrita, and keeping time to the violin, which
sent forth its merry tones at a neighboring fandango, Inez drew near,
and related the result of her interview with Manuel, concluding by
declaring her intention to abide by her decision, and consult her own
wishes in the selection of a husband.

His astonishment was great. First he tried reasoning, but she refuted
every argument advanced with the adroitness of an Abelard: the small
stock of patience with which "Dame Nature" had endowed the Don gave
way, and at last, stamping with rage, he swore she should comply, or
end her life in a gloomy cell of San Jose.

Inez laughed contemptuously. She felt the whirlwind she had raised
gathering about her, yet sought not to allay it: she knew it was the
precursor of a fierce struggle, yet quailed not. Like the heroine of
Saragossa, or the martyr of Rouen, she knew not fear; and her restless
nature rather joyed in the strife.

A low growl from the dog who shared the robe, announced an intruder,
and the next moment the Padre joined them. He was joyfully hailed by
De Garcia as an ally; but a dark look of hatred gleamed from Inez's
eyes, as they rested on his form: it vanished instantly, and she
welcomed him with a smile. She was cognizant of