thought of an old age
companioned by a heart-broken daughter?"

Don Jose turned pale and hitched his chair. "Other maids have been
balked when young, and have forgotten. Concha is but sixteen--"

"She is also unique. She will marry me or no one. Of that I am as
certain as that she is the woman of women for me."

"How can you be so certain?" asked the Commandante sharply. "Surely
you have had little talk alone with her?"

"The heart has a language of its own. Recall your own youth, senor."

"It is true," said Don Jose, with a heavy sigh, as he had a fleeting
vision of Dona Ignacia, slim and lovely, at the grating, with a rose in
her hair. "But this tremendous passion of the heart--it passes, senor,
it passes. We love the good wife, but we sometimes realize that we
could have loved another good wife as well."

"That is a bit of philosophy I should have uttered myself,
Commandante--yesterday. But there are women and women, and your
daughter is one of the chosen few who take from the years what the
years take from others. I am not rushing into matrimony for the sake
of a pair of black eyes and a fine figure. I have outlived the
possibility of making a fool of myself if I would. Before I realized
how deeply I loved your daughter I had deliberately chosen her out of
all the women I have known, as my friend and companion for the various
and difficult ways of life which I shall be called upon to follow.
Your daughter will have a high place at the Russian Court, and she will
occupy it as naturally as if I had found her in Madrid and you in the
great position to which your attainments and services entitle you."

Don Jose, despite his consternation, titillated agreeably. He
privately thought no one in New Spain good enough for his daughter, and
his weather-beaten self was not yet insensible to the rare visitation
of winged darts tipped with honey. But the situation was one of the
most embarrassing he had ever been called upon to face, and perhaps for
the first time in his direct and honest life his resolution was shaken
in a crisis.

"Believe me, your excellency, I appreciate the honor you have done my
house, and I will add with all my heart that never have I liked a man
more. But--Mother of God! Mother of God!"

Rezanov took out his cigarette case, a superb bit of Russian enamel,
graven with the Imperial arms, and a parting gift from his Tsar. He
passed it to his host, who had developed a preference for Ru