“Assuredly not.”

“And,” continued Incarnacion, throwing down the match and putting his foot on it, “if this boaster, this turkey-cock, says she did, you could put him out like that?”

“Certainly,” said Clarence, with an easy confidence he was, however, far from feeling, “if he really said it—­which I doubt.”

“Ah, truly,” said Incarnacion; “who knows?  It may be another Senorita Silsbee.”

“The senora’s adopted daughter is called miss Peyton, friend Nascio.  You forget yourself,” said Clarence quietly.

“Ah, pardon!” said Incarnacion with effusive apology; “but she was born Silsbee.  Everybody knows it; she herself has told it to Pepita.  The Senor Peyton bequeathed his estate to the Senora Peyton.  He named not the senorita!  Eh, what would you?  It is the common cackle of the barnyard.  But I say ‘Mees Silsbee.’  For look you.  There is a Silsbee of Sacramento, the daughter of her aunt, who writes letters to her.  Pepita has seen them!  And possibly it is only that Mees of whom the brigand Pedro boasts.”

“Possibly,” said Clarence, “but as far as this rancho is concerned, friend Nascio, thou wilt understand—­and I look to thee to make the others understand—­that there is no Senorita Silsbee here, only the Senorita Peyton, the respected daughter of the senora thy mistress!” He spoke with the quaint mingling of familiarity and paternal gravity of the Spanish master—­a faculty he had acquired at El Refugio in a like vicarious position, and which never failed as a sign of authority.  “And now,” he added gravely, “get out of this, friend, with God’s blessing, and see that thou rememberest what I told thee.”

The retainer, with equal gravity, stepped backwards, saluted with his sombrero until the stiff brim scraped the floor, and then solemnly withdrew.

Left to himself, Clarence remained for an instant silent and thoughtful before the oven-like hearth.  So! everybody knew Susy’s real relations to the Peytons, and everybody but Mrs. Peyton, perhaps, knew that she was secretly corresponding with some one of her own family.  In other circumstances he might have found some excuse for this assertion of her independence and love of her kindred, but in her attitude towards Mrs. Peyton it seemed monstrous.  It appeared impossible that Mrs. Peyton should not have heard of it, or suspected the young girl’s disaffection.  Perhaps she had,—­it was another burden laid upon her shoulders,—­but the proud woman had kept it to herself.  A film of moisture came across his eyes.  I fear he thought less of the suggestion of Susy’s secret meeting with Pedro, or Incarnacion’s implied suspicions that Pedro was concerned in Peyton’s death, than of this sentimental possibility.  He knew that Pedro had been hated by the others on account of his position; he knew the instinctive jealousies of the race and their predisposition to extravagant misconstruction.  From what he had gathered, and