Murguia's administrador, or overseer. He took it for granted
that the French senor (in those days Mexico called all foreigners
French) and the French senoras were friends of his employer, and
Driscoll did not undeceive him. The trooper's habits were those of war,
and war admitted quartering yourself on an enemy. He brought the news,
too, that Murguia had come safely through his last blockade run, which
alone insured him a welcome without the fact that ranchero hospitality
may be almost Arabian and akin to a sacrament.

Plunging into apologies for every conceivable thing that could or might
be amiss, Don Anastasio's steward led them into the sala, a long front
room, the hacendado's hall of state. To all appearances it had not been
so used in many years, but the old furnishing of some former Spanish
owner still told the tale of coaches before the colonnade outside and of
hidalgo guests within the great house. There was the stately sofa of
honor flanked by throne-like armchairs, with high-backed ones next in
line, all once of bright crimson satin and now frazzled and stained. The
inevitable mirror leaned from its inevitable place over the sofa, but it
was cracked and the gilt of the heavy frame had tarnished to red. At the
other end of the sala, a considerable journey, there hung a token of the
later and Mexican family in possession. The token was of course the
Virgin of Guadelupe in her flame of gold, as she had gaudily emblazoned
herself on the blanket, or serape, of a poor Indian. Murguia's print was
one of thousands of copies of that same revered serape.

Urging them to be seated, clapping his hands for servants, giving
orders, ever apologizing, the overseer finally got the travelers
convinced that it was their house and that supper would be ready now
directly. With a glance at his two companions, Driscoll inquired for the
senoras of the family, whereupon a sudden embarrassment darkened the
administrador's fat amiable features.

"Dona Luz, Your Mercy means? Ai, caballero, you are most kind. And you
tell me that her father will come to-morrow, that he will--surely come?"

"Might we," Jacqueline interposed, "pay our respects to Senor Murguia's
daughter?"

The poor fellow begged Their Mercies' indulgence, but Dona Matilde, the
senora aunt of Dona Luz, lay sick in the house. As for Dona Luz, yes,
Dona Luz had gone to the chapel, as she often did of an evening lately,
to pray for her aunt's recovery. Dona Luz had vowed