ing in his little tongue, and the devil in his brain. I
liked him, although he was the son of my enemy; and if he had been an
Iturbi y Moncada I would have made a great man of him. Ay! but he was
quick. One day in Monterey, he got under my feet and I fell flat, much
imperilling my dignity, for it was on Alvarado Street, and I was a
member of the Territorial Deputation. I could have beaten him, I was
so angry; but he scrambled to his little feet, and, helping me to
mine, he said, whilst dodging my stick, 'Be not angry, senor. I gave
my promise to the earth that thou shouldst kiss her, for all the world
has prayed that she should not embrace thee for ninety years to come.'
What could I do? I gave him a cake. Thou smilest, my daughter; but
thou wilt not commend the enemy of thy house, no? Ah, well, we grow
less bitter as we grow old; and although I hated his father I liked
Diego. Again, I remember, I was in Monterey, and he was there; his
father and I were both members of the Deputation. Caramba! what hot
words passed between us! But I was thinking of Diego. I took a volume
of Shakespeare from him one day. 'Thou art too young to read such
books,' I said. 'A baby reading what the good priests allow not men
to read. I have not read this heretic book of plays, and yet thou dost
lie there on thy stomach and drink in its wickedness.' 'It is true,'
he said, and how his steel eyes did flash; 'but when I am as old as
you, senor, my stomach will be flat and my head will be big. Thou
art the enemy of my father, but--hast thou noticed?--thy stomach is
bigger than his, and he has conquered thee in speech and in politics
more times than thou hast found vengeance for. Ay!--and thy ranchos
have richer soil and many more cattle, but he has a library, Don
Guillermo, and thou hast not.' I spanked him then and there; but I
never forgot what he said, and thou hast read what thou listed. I
would not that the children of Alejandro Estenega should know more
than those of Guillermo Iturbi y Moncada."

"Thou hast cause to be proud of Reinaldo, for he sparkles like the
spray of the fountain, and words are to him like a shower of leaves in
autumn. And yet, and yet," she added, with angry candor, "he has not a
brain like Diego Estenega. _He_ is not a man, but a devil."

"A good brain has always a devil at the wheel; sharp eyes have sharper
nerves behind; and lightning from a big soul flashes fear into a
little one. Diego is not a devil,--I remember