Then she glanced eagerly down the road beneath her window.  In spite of the wisdom she had accepted from the French romanticist, her fancy was just a little touched by Juan Tornel.  His black flashing eyes could look so tender, and he rode so beautifully.  She twitched the curtain into place and ran across the room, her feet pattering on the bare floor, jumped into her little iron bed, and drew the dainty sheet to her throat.  A ladder had fallen heavily against the side of the house.

She heard an agile form ascend and seat itself on the deep window-sill.  Then the guitar vibrated under the touch of master fingers, and a rich sweet tenor sang to her:—­

EL CORAZON

  “El corazon del amor palpita,
  Al oir de tu dulce voz,
  Cuando mi sangre
  Se pone en agitacion,
  Tu eres la mas hermosa,
  Tu eres la luz del dia,
  Tu eres la gloria mia,
  Tu eres mi dulce bien.

“Negro tienes el cabello, Talle lineas hermosas, Mano blanca, pie precioso, No hay que decir en ti:—­Tu eres la mas hermosa, Tu eres la luz del dia, Tu eres la prenda mia, Tu me haras morir.

  “Que importa que noche y dia,
  En ti sola estoy pensando,
  El corazon palpitante
  No cesa de repetir:—­
  Tu eres la mas hermosa,
  Tu eres la luz del dia,
  Tu eres la prenda mia,
  Tu me haras morir—­Eulogia!”

Eulogia lay as quiet as a mouse in the daytime, not daring to applaud, hoping fatigue had sent her mother to sleep.  Her lover tuned his guitar and began another song, but she did not hear it; she was listening to footfalls in the garret above.  With a presentiment of what was about to happen she sprang out of bed with a warning cry; but she was too late.  There was a splash and rattle on the window-seat, a smothered curse, a quick descent, a triumphant laugh from above.  Eulogia stamped her foot with rage.  She cautiously raised the window and passed her hand along the outer sill.  This time she beat the casement with both hands:  they were covered with warm ashes.

“Well, my daughter, have I not won the battle?” said a voice behind her, and Eulogia sat down on the window-seat and swung her feet in silent wrath.

Dona Pomposa wore a rather short night-gown, and her feet were encased in a pair of her husband’s old boots.  Her hair was twisted under a red silk kerchief, and again she crossed her hands on her stomach, but the thumbs upheld a candle.  Eulogia giggled suddenly.

“What dost thou laugh at, senorita?  At the way I have served thy lover?  Dost thou think he will come soon again?”

“No, mamma, you have proved the famous hospitality of the Californians which the Americans are always talking about.  You need have no more envy of the magnificence of Los Quervos.”  And then she kicked her heels against the wall.

“Oh, thou canst make sharp speeches, thou impertinent little brat; but Juan Tornel will serenade under thy window no more.  Dios! the ashes must look well on his pretty mustachios.  Go to bed.  I will put thee to board in the convent to-morrow.”  And she shuffled out of the room, her ample figure swinging from side to side like a large pendulum.