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XEown an& Country 
 QLibrars 
 
 No. 193 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES 
 
Novels by Christian Reid. 
 
 The Picture of Las Cruces. A Romance of Mexico. 
 
 i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; doth, $1.00. 
 The Land of the Sun. Vistas Mexicanas. i2mo. 
 
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 cloth, $1.00. 
 
 New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
THE PICTURE OF 
 LAS CRUCES 
 
 A ROMANCE OF MEXICO 
 
 BY 
 
 CHRISTIAN REID 
 
 AUTHOR OF THE LAND OF THE SKY, THE LAND OF THE SUN, 
 A COMEDY OF ELOPEMENT, ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 1896 
 
Copyright, 1894, 1895, 
 BY THE J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 
 COPYHIGHT, 1896, 
 
 By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 
 
 ^f/7y33 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 There is not in the whole of the lovely Mexican 
 land, and it is doubtful if there is in the wide world, 
 a more picturesque and delightful city than the city 
 of Morelia, or one more fascinating to the artist eye 
 and soul. So at least Ralph Ingraham thought, as 
 he paced slowly along the beautiful Calzada de 
 Guadalupe, drinking in, as it were, at every pore the 
 perfect picturesqueness of the scenes around him. 
 For Nature had given Ingraham a true artist's soul, 
 and his friends among the kindly fraternity of the 
 pencil and the brush were often heard disinterest- 
 edly to lament that he had not the spur of neces- 
 sity to force him to efforts which are seldoni made 
 without that disagreeable but salutary incentive. 
 Yet he had won an honourable place among them 
 by work that could not be decried as that of an ama- 
 teur, but was of a sufficiently original character to 
 prove his ability and give promise of better things 
 in the future, were love of art and the strong creative 
 impulse that we call genius to triumph over the 
 temptation to dilettanteism offered by great wealth. 
 
 But never had the qualities which conflicted with 
 the artistic half of his nature been more in abey- 
 
2 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 ance, or the artist more vigorously alive within him, 
 than on this exquisite morning in the Calzada of 
 MoreHa. The great stone causeway forty feet wide, 
 with stone parapets and benches along its sides, and 
 double rows of giant trees shading it, while masses 
 of roses rioted among their stems, appeared to him 
 the most delightful of promenades. An aqueduct 
 crossed the valley in a succession of graceful arches, 
 and, spanning the Calzada with one great af ch, gave 
 him an opportunity to read in half-effaced charac- 
 ters that this structure was erected in a year of fam- 
 ine by the then Bishop of Michoacan, Fray Antonio 
 de San Miguel Iglesias, in order to provide work 
 and so procure food for the starving people. An- 
 cient churches with richly and quaintly sculptured 
 fagades, and dwellings inclosing courts full of flow- 
 ers, lined the way, while overhead arched a sky of 
 brilliant sapphire, and far and fair spread the lovely 
 valley, encircled by heights bathed in magical light 
 and colour. 
 
 Presently Ingraham found what he had been in 
 search of, a good point for a sketch, and, turning, 
 beckoned a boy who, like himself, was idling along 
 the causeway, only in a more pronounced manner, 
 for he had collapsed upon one of the stone benches, 
 with the sketching-trap which he had been engaged 
 to carry beside him, while he watched the unac- 
 countable movements of the stranger who had re- 
 tained his services. The beckoning gesture, how- 
 ever, brought him to his feet, and his dark eyes 
 quickened as he saw the trap unlimbered, the easel 
 set up, the umbrella opened, and the canvas placed. 
 
 " It is a picture, seiior, that you will make? " he 
 said, in a half-interrogative, half-assertive tone. 
 
 Ingraham smiled. " When it is done you can tell 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 3 
 
 what it is," he repHed. " Meanwhile — what is your 
 name? " 
 
 " Pancho, senor." 
 
 " Well, Pancho, you can either stay here and 
 wait until I am ready for you, or you can go, and re- 
 turn in two hours." 
 
 " And you will paint, seiior? " 
 
 " Yes, I shall paint." 
 
 " Then," said Pancho, with decision, " I will 
 stay." 
 
 He said no more, but, subsiding into a corner 
 of the bench nearest the spot where the painter had 
 set up his easel, watched the rapid progress of the 
 sketch which the latter began, with intent, absorbed 
 interest evident in every line of his face. 
 
 An attractive face it was, like those of many of 
 his race. A bronze-tinted skin, delicate features, 
 large dark eyes under level brows and sweeping 
 lashes — ^who that knows Mexico does not know 
 this face, with its charm alike of beauty and expres- 
 sion, seen as often under the ragged head-covering 
 of the peasant as the silver-laced sombrero of the 
 gentleman? It is a face full of artistic possibilities, 
 of the artistic genius which this extraordinary peo- 
 ple possess and display in a hundred ways — in archi- 
 tecture, painting, modelling, and music. To this 
 boy there was a pleasure, which no gamin of another 
 race would have found, in observing such work 
 as he had never seen before. Often had he sat for 
 Tiours on the pavement of some great old church, 
 watching the painters frescoing the soaring domes 
 with glowing forms of saints and angels ; but never 
 before had he seen an artist sit down in the open 
 air and transfer to a canvas before his eyes the Cal- 
 zada with its noble old trees, its carved benches 
 
4 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 and parapet, and the arches of the aqueduct beyond, 
 by strokes that looked like magic in their swiftness. 
 
 Ingraham, for his part, entirely forgot his silent 
 companion as he worked with that sense of satis- 
 faction in his work which an artist feels who is con- 
 scious of success in catching an effect that he de- 
 sires, and in making his own some fragment of that 
 great beauty of Nature which is as baffling as it is 
 enchanting. There is an elation as great in such 
 success as the corresponding depression when the 
 success is not attained, and Ingraham only ex- 
 pressed aloud his inward sense of this when at the 
 end of more than two hours' work he threw his head 
 back, took in the eflEect of what he had done, and 
 said, audibly, " That is pretty good ! " 
 
 " Permit me to agree witb you," observed an un- 
 expected voice, speaking in English at his shoulder. 
 " It is very good." 
 
 The young man started and turned, full of as- 
 tonishment and not a little vexed that his self-con- 
 gratulation had been overheard by any one capable 
 of understanding it. " Confound your imperti- 
 nence ! " was the thought in his mind and written 
 legibly on his face, as he met the smiling glance of 
 a man whose approach he had not heard at all. 
 
 " You must pardon me," said the latter, with 
 easy courtesy, " but I have been admiring your pic- 
 ture for some time, and the temptation to answer 
 and agree with you was irresistible." 
 
 To show vexation would only have made the 
 situation ridiculous: so Ingraham sipiled in return 
 as he answered, " A man who talks aloud in a pub- 
 lic place can not be surprised if he is overheard ; but 
 I was not aware that I had a listener, much less one 
 who understood English." 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 5 
 
 " English is my native tongue," replied the other, 
 " though probably you would not think so to look 
 at me." 
 
 Upon this, Ingraham did look at him, taking in 
 his whole appearance with a comprehensive glance, 
 and decided that he would certainly not have 
 thought so. What he saw was a spare man of me- 
 dium height, fully as dark as the average Mexican, 
 with a thin, keen face Ughted by quick observant 
 eyes and full of shrewd expression. In attire he 
 was altogether Mexican, wearing the close-fitting 
 breeches decorated with silver buttons and the short 
 jacket of the country, together with an elaborately- 
 trimmed sombrero, while the small foot in its pointed 
 shoe and the slender hand with finger-ends deeply 
 yellowed by cigarette-smoking were points that in- 
 tensified his striking resemblance to the native type. 
 
 " You would never take me for a ' gringo,' eh? " 
 said this easy personage, smiling, in reply to the 
 glance that travelled over him. " I am a pretty good 
 imitation of a Mexican, I flatter myself, and pass 
 for one anywhere. You see, when I came to Mexi- 
 co, a quarter of a century ago, foreigners, especially 
 Americans, were not in as good odour here as they 
 are now, and it saved trouble if one adopted the 
 national habits and did not challenge remark by 
 one's appearance. I lost no time in becoming plus 
 royaliste que le roi, and now I have almost forgotten 
 that I was ever anything else than a Mexican — prob- 
 ably because I made my identification complete by 
 marrying one." 
 
 Ingraham laughed. He saw that he had made 
 an acquaintance out of the ordinary, and, having a 
 large slice of Bohemianism in his disposition, de- 
 termined to encourage this frank stranger, at least 
 
6 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 as far as the point where amusement is apt to be- 
 come boredom. 
 
 " You are to be congratulated upon your suc- 
 cess," he said. " I should certainly never take you 
 for an3rthing but a Mexican. Nature, however, gave 
 you an appearance which made your assumption of 
 the character easy." 
 
 " Yes, Nature made me a spare, dark man," re- 
 plied the other. " But that was only the foundation. 
 In order to change one's national type, much is 
 needed besides a tint of skin. There are habits, 
 
 manners, a hundred indefinable things But 
 
 pardon my egotism ! I am wandering far from your 
 charming picture. You must really allow me to 
 remark that you are evidently a painter of great tal- 
 ent and skill." 
 
 " You are very kind," said Ingraham. " I can 
 not do less than remark in turn that you are evi- 
 dently a person of appreciation and cultivation." 
 
 " I know a good picture when I see it," was the 
 confident reply. " I have always been a lover of 
 art — ^when I was young, as a connoisseur; later, as 
 a more practical matter. You are a stranger in 
 Mexico,, probably, senor? " 
 
 " From your point of view — that of a quarter of 
 a century in the country-r-yes. I have been here 
 only a few months." 
 
 " And you are (forgive the question) a painter by 
 profession? " 
 
 " I have no higher ambition than to be reckoned 
 so." 
 
 " Then, Seiior Painter, has it occurred to you to 
 consider or to know that you are in a country rich 
 not only in such natural beauty as this " — ^and he 
 waved his hand toward the scene around them — 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 7 
 
 " but also in works of art, paintings of the great 
 masters, which, so far from being known and cata- 
 logued as they are in Europe, are many of them in 
 obscure places, totally unknown to the world? " 
 
 " No," answered Ingraham; " I can not say that 
 I am aware of anything of the kind. I have found 
 some fine paintings in the churches, a few of which 
 were apparently without recognition of their value; 
 but nothing has led me to believe that there are a 
 great number of such works of art in the country." 
 
 "Ah!" said the other. He drew a cigarette- 
 case from his pocket, opened it, and offered it to 
 Ingraham, who declined the proffered civility by 
 a gesture, while he resumed work on his picture, 
 putting in touches half idly here and there. The 
 cigarette having been lighted with the care a Mexi- 
 can always displays in this operation, the other end 
 of the double-headed wax taper put back in its box, 
 and a deep whiff of smoke exhaled, the stranger 
 went on : 
 
 " It would astonish you if I were to tell you how 
 many such works of art are -to be found in this coun- 
 try. I do not speak of the great Murillo of Guada- 
 lajara, or the Titian of Tzintziintzan " 
 
 " I must see that picture, by the bye," interpo- 
 lated Ingraham. 
 
 " But of many, equally fine, that are buried in 
 country chapels, where they are seen only by Indian 
 worshippers, or in private houses, where they have 
 drifted from the despoiled convents and monas- 
 teries. Some of these pictures " — he lowered his 
 voice impressively — " might be purchased for a 
 comparative trifle, and disposed of most advantage- 
 ously in London or Paris, or even New York. 
 It is a speculation which I have long had in view, 
 
8 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 but in which I need intelhgent co-operation — and 
 capital." 
 
 To the credit of Ingraham's self-command, it 
 may be said that he did not move a muscle, although 
 this seductive offer, for such he readily interpreted 
 it to be, thrilled every nerve of the painter and the 
 collector. His own experience, limited though it 
 was, told him that the man's assertions might be 
 true, and that, if he could successfully manage the 
 matter, some of the treasures spoken of might be- 
 come his own. There was a moment's pause before 
 he could control his voice sufficiently to say, care- 
 lessly — 
 
 " The co-operation and capital ought both to be 
 easily obtained if the pictures really exist. There is 
 not an art dealer in one of the great cities you have 
 named who wquld not give you carte blanche if you 
 could procure for him genuine Murillos and Ti- 
 tians." 
 
 " Very true, if I could convince him of my abil- 
 ity to do so," was the reply. " But that is difficult 
 without exhibiting the paintings, and the paintings 
 are not to be obtained without money. Behold my 
 dilemma! Now, if it were possible that you, seiior " 
 — and the keen eyes surveyed the young man very 
 closely — " could command the confidence of these 
 dealers, as I judge from your evident talent may be 
 the case, you might make your visit to Mexico more 
 profitable than by painting pictures of your own, 
 however admirable." 
 
 " But before entering into any negotiations of 
 the kind, one would like to be assured of the exist- 
 ence and value of these paintings, to see and judge 
 for one's self, if possible," Ingraham suggested, 
 quietly. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. g 
 
 " There would be no difficulty in that," replied 
 the other, quickly. " Good faith once assured — and 
 you will pardon me that I mention what is of essen- 
 tial importance in all business arrangements — I 
 could convince you by such ocular demonstration 
 as no painter would think of questioning." 
 
 " In that case, we will talk of the matter further," 
 said Ingraham, as he began to put away his canvas 
 and close iip his trap. " Perhaps you will do me 
 the honour to take dinner with me at my hotel, when 
 we can more fully discuss the subject. Here is my 
 card." 
 
 The stranger received the bit of pasteboard and 
 bowed. " I am very happy to make your acquaint- 
 ance, Mr. Ingraham," he said. " Allow me to re- 
 ciprocate the introduction." And from a breast 
 pocket of the jacket came forth a pocketbook, and 
 out of that a card, which he presented with another 
 bow to Ingraham, who read inscribed thereon — 
 
 " Gilberto Rosa." 
 
 " Your name, as well as your appearance, is 
 Mexican, seiior," he observed. " Yet I understood 
 you to say you are an American from the States." 
 
 " And have you never heard of translating a 
 proper name? " asked the other, smiling. " All for- 
 eigners living in Mexico use the Spanish form of 
 their Christian names, and I saw no reason why the 
 rule might not be applied to a surname, especially 
 when the change only involved the difference of 
 one vowel." 
 
 " Your name in English, then, is " 
 
 " Gilbert Rose, at your service. The change, 
 you perceive, is not very great." 
 
 " But certainly much more musical," said In- 
 graham, with a smile. " Sefior Rosa, I shall expect 
 
10 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 the pleasure of seeing you at my hotel, and until then 
 will bid you good-day. Pancho " — ^the boy on the 
 bench sprang alertly to his feet — " vamonosl " 
 
 11. 
 
 " I suppose," said Ingraham to himself as he 
 sauntered back along th.e Calzada, " that the first 
 thing a prudent man would do would be to find out 
 who this plausible Mexicanized American is, and 
 how much credence may be attached to his stories 
 of unknown treasures of art. But why should I 
 take that trouble? No doubt he is an adventurer; 
 but what possible harm can he do me? He certainly 
 can not impose worthless pictures upon me, and 
 there is the probability that he may have discovered 
 something of real value. When one thinks of the 
 history of this country, of its past opulence and 
 splendour, and of the extreme likelihood that many 
 of the works of the great Spanish painters found 
 their way here at a time when no one took note of 
 such things, there seems a very decided probabil- 
 ity that he is speaking the truth. Certainly a fellow 
 of this kind, shrewd and with cultivation enough 
 to know their value, would be just the person to 
 unearth such treasures; and if he should lead one 
 into adventures by the way, why, so much the bet- 
 ter. Adventures, perhaps, would be even more de- 
 sirable than possible Murillos and Titians. LijEe 
 is a terribly humdrum aiifair; and if Sefior Rosa 
 can for a little while assist in making it otherwise, 
 r care not how much of a sharper he may prove. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. n 
 
 A few inquiries, however, may not be amiss. Pan- 
 cho!" 
 
 " Senor."- 
 
 " Do you know the gentleman who has just been 
 talking with me? " 
 
 " Certainly, seiior. Every one knows Don Gil- 
 berto." 
 
 " And what does every one know of Don Gil- 
 berto? Who is he? " 
 
 Pancho hesitated. However extensive his knowl- 
 edge, it was evidently a little difficult to formulate, 
 and after a moment he could only reply, " He is a 
 gringo, sefior, and married to Dona Josefa Valdez." 
 
 " And is that all you know of him? What does 
 he do? " 
 
 " Many things, senor. He buys and sells lands 
 and mines, he travels and knows every one — he has 
 much business (mtichos negocios), Don Gilberto." 
 
 " Is he rich? " 
 
 " Oh, no, seiior '' (with conviction). " He is not 
 rich, but he has much business, and it may be that 
 he will be rich some day. Dona Josefa has told my 
 mother, who is her lavandera, that Don Gilberto 
 will be very rich when he has sold the great mine 
 of La Luz to some English sefiores." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Ingraham, with a smile. He could 
 place Don Gilberto very easily now. It does not 
 require a long sojourn in Mexico to become famil- 
 iar with a class of speculators, mostly of foreign 
 birth, who are ready to sell anything in the country 
 — mines, haciendas, whatever one may chance to 
 desire — ^at a moment's notice. That they are not 
 themselves the owners of these things does not at 
 all matter. They can put their hands upon what 
 you want at once, they assure you, and it is only a 
 
12 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 question of putting your own hand deeply enough 
 in your pocket to secure it. The enterprising gringo 
 who called himself Senor Rosa" plainly belonged to 
 this class, and was only a little out of the ordinary, 
 inasmuch as he tempted a painter with tales of un- 
 known pictures bearing the names of great masters. 
 " He is a genius in his line, and deserves to make 
 a fortune," thought Ingraham ; " but I hope he will 
 not sell the mine until he has given me a chance at 
 the paintings, else I fear he will become a collector 
 and absorb them himself." 
 
 That he had correctly estimated the man he was 
 quite sure by the time they had finished an agree- 
 able dinner together. If a sharper, he was certainly 
 not a vulgar one, and there were indications about 
 him which went far to prove to Ingraham that 
 whatever he was now he had been at one time a 
 gentleman, and was a man of liberal culture. He 
 talked well and easily on many subjects, and did 
 not betray the cloven hoof of the speculator until, 
 over the wine and cigars, Ingraham himself led the 
 conversation in that direction. And then the flood- 
 gates were opened! As the young man listened, 
 interested and amused, he could not but own that 
 there was a singular fascination in these stories of 
 mines of fabulous richness waiting only the magic 
 touch of capital to develop them, of haciendas with 
 leagues of territory and almost uncounted flocks 
 and herds, where coffee and cane grew side by side, 
 of forests filled with the rare, precious woods of the 
 tropics, and even of the buried treasure of which 
 so many tales are rife in Mexico. But at last he 
 said, laughingly — 
 
 " Come, come, Sefior Rosa, do not tantaHze a 
 poor knight of the brush any further with these won- 
 
.THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 13 
 
 derful chances for fortune. Let me hear something 
 now of the pictures and where they are to be found." 
 
 " To find them is easy," was the quiet reply, 
 " but the question is — after they are found? What 
 then? If we are to enter into business negotiations, 
 it is well that terms and conditions should be made 
 clear at once." 
 
 " With all my heart," said Ingraham. " Let me 
 hear what you propose. You will readily perceive 
 that, knowing nothing, I can propose nothing." 
 
 The other looked at him intently for a moment, 
 as if he were bringing all his powers of penetration 
 to determine how far the debonnair young stranger 
 was to be trusted; and the result of the scrutiny was 
 so far favourable that he spoke, presently with an 
 apparent impulse of candour: 
 
 " In a matter of this kind some degree of mutual 
 confidence is necessary. To treat a gentleman as 
 if he were an unscrupulous dealer prepared to take 
 any advantage of one, would be a mistake that I 
 flatter myself I am incapable of making. I shall 
 speak to you frankly, Mr. Ingraham, and then we 
 will settle what is best to be done for the benefit of 
 both of us. As I told you this morning, I have long 
 had my eye upon some pictures which are undoubt- 
 edly of great value. What would you say, now, to 
 a genuine Velasquez? " 
 
 " I should say," replied Ingraham, " that I would 
 want very convincing proofs of its genuineness." 
 
 Don Gilberto waved his hand. " If you are the 
 artist I suppose you to be," he said, " you will not 
 want any other proof than merely to look at it. The 
 picture speaks for itself. But there are other proofs. 
 . It has never been out of the possession of the family 
 for which it was originally painted, and the family 
 
14 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 tradition is unwavering that it is an original Velas- 
 quez." 
 
 "And can it be purchased?" asked the young 
 man, eagerly. 
 
 " There are few things that can not be purchased 
 — if one offers enough," was the reply. " The fam- 
 ily owning this picture are now comparatively poor; 
 they suffered much in the revolution, and they would 
 not refuse to sell it. I am sure of that. But I have 
 never been secure enough of my own profit to be 
 able to offer them their price." 
 
 " Let me see the picture," said Ingraham, " and 
 if it is what you believe, the price will be forthcom- 
 mg. 
 
 " And the profit? " 
 
 " The profit! " He paused a moment, then de- 
 cided that he would continue to support the char- 
 acter of a wandering painter, not presumably over- 
 burdened with worldly wealth, which chance had 
 given him. " The profit we will divide. There can 
 be no difficulty about that. Only convince me that 
 your picture is genuine." 
 
 " I wish I were as certain of eternal salvation as 
 of its genuineness," said Don Gilberto, piously. 
 " And it is but one of many hidden away in the 
 nooks and corners of this country. Why, I know a 
 little chapel on the lake not far from here — the 
 church of an obscure Indian village — that has no 
 less than three splendid Riberas! " 
 
 " How did such a church come to possess such 
 treasures? " asked Ingraham, breathlessly — for 
 surely statements and possibilities like these were 
 enough to take away the breath. 
 
 " The padre of this church is an eccentric," re- 
 plied Don Gilberto. " He is a man of private for- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 15 
 
 tune, but so peculiar that he has been left to spend 
 his life in this village, where, by the bye, he is per- 
 fectly happy. The pictures are his personal posses- 
 sion. Once he went away on a journey, and he came 
 back with these treasures. Where he obtained them 
 he never said, but it is supposed by the few people 
 who know of their existence and their value that 
 he purchased them from some of the dispersed re- 
 ligious communities. There were many such pic- 
 tures in the rich old monasteries, and, since nothing 
 was easier than to take a canvas out of its frame, roll 
 it up, and carry it away, very few of them came into 
 the possession of the government. Here is an ex- 
 ample — ^which I know to be a fact. At the spolia- 
 tion of the great monastery of San Francisco in the 
 city of Mexico, two pictures fell by some means into 
 the hands of a soldier, who sold them both for twelve 
 hundred dollars. The purchaser immediately car- 
 ried them to Europe and readily obtained for them 
 sixty thousand dollars apiece. They were fine Mu- 
 rillos." 
 
 " And do you know of any pictures still in the 
 country and in private hands equal to those? " In- 
 graham inquired. 
 
 " Equal I could not say, for those I did not see. 
 But I know of the existence of many pictures of 
 great value. Some I have seen, others I have heard 
 of. They are generally to be discovered in places 
 where you would least expect to find them." 
 
 " What a country , it is ! " said Ingraham, who 
 began to feel' excitement pulsating in his veins. 
 
 "Ah!" Don Gilberto lifted his shoulders: 
 " when you have lived in it for a quarter of a cen- 
 tury you feel that you are only beginning to know it. 
 Mexico, Seiior Ingraham, is one of the few coun- 
 
l6 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 tries left in the world wKere the marvellous is still 
 possible. It seems to you, no doubt, being an artist 
 and a man of cultivation, brilliant, picturesque, and 
 interesting " 
 
 " Beyond anything that I had imaigined," said 
 Ingraham, fervently. 
 
 " But what you see on the surface is common- 
 place compared to the depths in the life of the coun- 
 try which no stranger can possibly know. What 
 stories I could tell you of the people, wl^t glimpses 
 I could give you of the existence which they still 
 lead, almost untouched by what is called modern 
 civilization, which, as you well know, is death to the 
 .romantic and the picturesque! " 
 
 " Senor Rosa," said Ingraham, " I perceive that 
 you are the man for whom I have been looking ever 
 since I entered Mexico. All those with whom I 
 have come in contact heretofore have been eager 
 to prove to me how far Mexico is progressing to- 
 ward that civilization you accurately describe, which 
 is making the whole world so drearily and hideously 
 alike that there will soon be no place left in it for 
 the lover of the romantic and the picturesque. My 
 effort has been to refrain from expressing to these 
 people the horror with which I regard their achieve- 
 ments, and at the same time to remove myself as 
 far as possible fromv the effects thereof. But a 
 stranger has indeed limited opportunities for see- 
 ing anything below the surface of a country. There- 
 fore I shall be deeply your debtor if you can afford 
 me any of those glimpses of which you speak." 
 
 " It will be my very great pleasure to do so," re- 
 plied the other; " for allow me to say that if I am 
 the man for whom you have been looking ever since 
 you entered Mexico, you are the man for whom 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 17 
 
 I have been waiting for half a decade. You shall 
 have glimpses of Mexican life such as are ^offered 
 to few strangers, and at the same time the oppor- 
 tunity to realize a fortune from the pictures I will 
 show you." 
 
 " I begin to suspect that you have stepped out 
 of the Arabian Nights," said Ingraham, laughing; 
 " but I accept your offers. How soon can you show 
 me one of these pictures — say the Velasquez? " 
 
 " The Velasquez is one that I can show you most 
 easily, for it is in a house where I am sufficiently 
 intimate to take you without previous arrangement. 
 Can you leave Morelia with me to-morrow? " 
 
 " Readily. Where shall we go? " 
 
 " First, to Patzcuaro, a place in itself well worth 
 seeing if you have not seen it "^Ingraham shook 
 his head — " and thence to a hacienda where we shall 
 find the picture of which I have spoken. The family 
 are connected with my wife, and I can introduce you 
 as a distinguished artist who, having heard of the 
 painting, desires to see it. You can then form your 
 own opinion of it; and incidentally you will find 
 yourself in a Mexican household where only the 
 purest Mexican customs exist, where, in fact, all 
 things are exactly as they were a century ago, ex- 
 cept that the family have, in the interval, managed 
 to lose the most of their wealth, and with it a great 
 part of their importance. But this will not make 
 them less interesting to an artist like yourself." 
 
 " On the contrary," said Ingraham. He smiled 
 as he spoke, with an exhilarating satisfaction in the 
 prospect before him. No shade of misgiving crossed 
 his mind. Let Don Gilberto be what he would — 
 and that he was an adventurer of a rather slippery 
 type the young man still believed — he was evidently 
 
1 8 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 possessed of a knowledge of the country so great, 
 and was opening the prospect of an experience so 
 alluring, that even if the Velasquez should prove 
 to be spurious, the quest for it offered sufificient ele- 
 ments of interest to compensate for a possible dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 III. 
 
 It was, however, with a certain sense of whimsi- 
 cal amusement, directed 'against himself, that In- 
 graham waked the next morning to the conscious- 
 ness that he was booked for an adventure into an 
 unknown country with an unknown companion, in 
 search of something almost as fabulous as the 
 Golden Fleece. For one of artistic temperament — 
 which means generally all things sensitive and im- 
 pressionable — he was very little a person of moods; 
 but he could not, any more than the rest of us, 
 altogether escape the defects of his qualities, and to 
 him also came in some degree that subtle ebb and 
 flow of feeling, that depressing sense of the unsatis- 
 factoriness of all things, which in one of his tempera- 
 ment IS the reaction almost certain to follow upon 
 any mood of more than ordinarily keen excitement 
 or interest. 
 
 This reaction was strongly upon him in the cool, 
 clear light of those waking hours, when such re- 
 actions are generally likely to make themselves 
 most strongely felt. " I am a fool! " he said to him- 
 self, with unflattering brevity. " I am about to un- 
 dertake what will probably be a very fatiguing jour- 
 ney, with a man who I have no manner of doubt 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 19 
 
 is a sharper, to look at a picture that is certain to 
 prove a spuriqus daub! And that, too, when I am 
 in a good vein of work ! " He gazed regretfully at 
 his sketch begun on the Calzada the day before, and 
 it seemed to him better than he had imagined it to 
 be — so much better, indeed, that the inclination to 
 return and complete it at once became almost irre- 
 sistible. " I have the greatest mind to throw the 
 whole thing over! " he thought, impatiently, as he 
 rose. 
 
 But what was there in the freshness and bril- 
 liancy of the morning which had power to change 
 his mood, when he presently stepped forth from his 
 chamber? Exquisite and indefinable, indeed, is the 
 charm of the early day in Mexico, exhilarating alike 
 to mind and body, communicating its ineffable 
 buoyancy to the most jaded energies and the most 
 despondent spirit. For a creature so responsive as 
 Ingraham to resist its influence was impossible. His 
 spirits rose like mercury: the prospect before him 
 assumed an entirely different aspect ; he suddenly 
 saw that it abounded in possibilities of interest and 
 pleasure. The Velasquez ! He said to himself with 
 a laugh that he had no belief in the Velasquez; but 
 the adventure, the visit to the old house where it 
 was supposed to be, the glimpse into the inner life 
 of this fascinating country — these things were surely 
 worth much fatigue and possible boredom. As for 
 his sketch, Morelia would be as beautiful, its Cal- 
 zada as picturesque, when he returned, as now, and 
 he had meant to see Patzcuaro in any event. 
 
 It was a very cheerful companion, therefore, 
 whom Seiior Rosa found awaiting him, and with 
 whom he presently set forth. That anomalous gen- 
 tleman himself seemed to be in excellent spirits, the 
 
20 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 result also of the morning influence, perhaps; and it 
 struck Ingraham that he was more Mexican than 
 ever in appearance, probably owing to the fact that 
 he had put the last touch to his costume in the form 
 of an ivory-hsmdled revolver, which protruded from 
 his hip pocket, below the short jacket that made 
 no pretence of concealing it. A stranger to the 
 country might have supposed from this warlike 
 preparation that there was some danger in the ex- 
 pedition. But Ingraham had by this time learned 
 that pistols in Mexico are regarded as purely orna- 
 mental adjuncts, and are seldom, if ever, brought 
 into use. 
 
 His own chief impedimenta — to wit, the sketch- 
 ing-trap — received a glance of unqualified approval 
 from Seilor Rosa. " That," he said, " is well ! You 
 are not only going to see, but to make, pictures. 
 And let me tell you that you will enter an artist's 
 paradise, one of the most beautiful regions of the 
 globe, and a terra incognita to people who are run- 
 ning the world over in search of the picturesque. 
 Do you know that Patzcuaro signifies in the Taras- 
 can tongue 'place of delights'? And, although 
 they have no advantages of comparison, the people 
 who named it were right. In climate, in beauty, in 
 every advantage that Nature can lavish, you will 
 acknowledge when you see it that it is truly a place 
 of delights." 
 
 " All Mexico seems to me that," said Ingraham 
 — " a place of delights and an artist's paradise, be- 
 yond any other country that I have ever wandered 
 into." 
 
 " But when you see Patzcuaro you will see its 
 crowning beauty," said the other, confidently. 
 
 Ingraham did not attach much importance to 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 2 1 
 
 this assurance, for he knew that the artist and the 
 mere lover of natural beauty often look at the same 
 scenes with different eyes, and he did not suppose 
 that he could possibly find anything more enchant- 
 ing than he had already found in this land of abound- 
 ing picturesqueness. There was, consequently, a 
 surprise in store for him when the railroad made 
 its final pause at the foot of the high hill on which 
 is situated the city of Patzcuaro, that ancient strong- 
 hold of Tarascan chiefs, from whence went forth 
 the embassies which welcomed peaceably the first 
 Spaniards that ever set foot in Michoacan, brown- 
 robed friars, sons of the gentle St. Francis. 
 
 Up this hill, along a winding road of two miles, 
 a diligencia conveyed the travellers and their lug- 
 gage in the accustomed manner of Mexican dili- 
 gencias — that is, with a fine disregard of any obstacle 
 of less size than a house; but its tremendous jolts 
 were hardly heeded by Ingraham as he hung out 
 of the window, enraptured by the view opening 
 below him — ^the sparkling lake from which the city 
 takes its name, the green islands upon its bosom, 
 the mountains draped in heavenly tints as they re- 
 ceded into distance, the smiling valley set with 
 domed towns and villages. Wider and wider spread 
 the picture as the lumbering vehicle mounted high- 
 er; but although Seiior Rosa kept a gratified and 
 observant eye upon the young artist, as far as at- 
 tention to his own comfort and a futile attempt to 
 hold himself in his seat would allow, he made no 
 remark upqn the scene. He was reserving himself 
 for a more supreme occasion. 
 
 But, once within the city, it was difficult to tear 
 Ingraham from the contemplation of its picturesque- 
 ness. Delightedly he wandered through the nar- 
 
Missing Page 
 
Missing Page 
 
24 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 imperfect for him to realize how far this exquisite 
 lake, lying so high above the ocean-tides, in a won- 
 derland of atmosphere and climate, is more perhaps 
 than any other spot in Mexico the meeting-place 
 of the ancient life of the country and that new yet 
 also old life which the Spaniard planted with his flag 
 and his cross. 
 
 " ' A place of delights '! " he said at last, speak- 
 ing to himself, though aloud. " Surely yes. No 
 later comers will ever challenge the name its old 
 possessors gave it." 
 
 " One may be quite sure of that," said his com- 
 panion, briskly. " The atmosphere alone is enough 
 to make it one of the most delightful places in the 
 world. Have you ever felt anything like it? — so 
 stimulating, yet so balmy? We are more than seven 
 thousand feet above the sea, you know. This is the 
 highest navigable water on the globe. And yofider 
 is the steamer on her way among the islands. You 
 must take a trip on that before you return to Mo- 
 relia." 
 
 " Yes," said Ingraham, with a start of recollec- 
 tion, " I want to go to Tzintziintzan. Why did I 
 not think of it earlier? We might have gone to-day." 
 
 " To-day, no. The horses from the hacienda 
 are no doubt by this time awaiting us at the fonda 
 below. I telegraphed yesterday that we would be 
 here to-day. They are expecting us. If you are 
 ready, we will return now." 
 
 Ingraham rose with a sigh. It was hard to tear 
 himself away from the picture which he seemed 
 to have only begun to enjoy. But it was a consola- 
 tion in leaving to think that whenever he returned 
 he should find it awaiting him, untouched in its 
 beauty, its magical freshness and charm, and he as- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 25 
 
 sured himself that he would return soon and remain 
 long. Let him only settle this matter of the Velas- 
 quez, in which he had now scant faith or interest, 
 and he would come back to Patzcuaro for an in- 
 definite period. Never had he felt more gratitude 
 for his leisure, unlimited by any such demands of 
 necessity as limit the time of most men, than in con- 
 templating the prospect of a prolonged sojourn on 
 these enchanting shores. 
 
 " If it is necessary to go, I am ready," he said; 
 and then as they began to descend the causeway 
 he asked, " How far is it to the hacienda? " 
 
 " About four leagues," was the reply. " If you 
 knew where to look, you could see it from the Cal- 
 vario — at least part of the lands. If they have sent 
 good horses, we shall be there in less than three 
 hours." 
 
 " You seem to know the people very well," In- 
 graham observed. 
 
 " Did I not mention that there is a connection? 
 -My wife is related to the family, and my daughter 
 is at the hacienda at present." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Ingraham. He made no further 
 comment, but his belief in the Velasquez descended 
 a few degrees lower. 
 
 As they approached their hotel, a man who had 
 been leaning in the doorway with an air of patient 
 waiting came forward to njeet them. He was a 
 typical Mexican moso, or servant, of the class found 
 only in great houses. His dark, clear-cut face, of 
 the pure native type, was keenly intelligent, and, 
 even to the ordinary observer, altogether trust- 
 worthy, and his slender, well-knit figure was well 
 set off by his picturesque dress. Breeches of deer- 
 skin were partially unbuttoned on the sides, and 
 
26 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 out of them flowed the folds of the white calsones 
 worn below. His waist was girded by a scarlet sash, 
 his short jacket, also of deer-skin, was elaborately 
 braided, and his richly-trimmed sombrero must have 
 cost at least a half-year's wages. 
 
 "Ah, Miguel!" cried Seiior Rosa at sight of 
 him. " I thought I should find you here. Have 
 you been waiting long? " 
 
 " A little time, Don Gilberto," replied the man. 
 " When I arrived they told me you had just gone 
 out." 
 
 " You have come from the hacienda this morn- 
 ing, of course?" 
 
 " Certainly, senor." 
 
 "Then you will want some time to rest and feed 
 the horses? " 
 
 "That is already done, sefior, and I have come 
 to know at what hour you wish to start." 
 
 " It is early yet. We have all the afternoon to 
 make four leagues. Let us take two hours for din- 
 ner and digestion. Yes, that will do. Bring your 
 horses in two hours." , 
 
 " 'Sta buen, seiior. In two hours they will be 
 here." 
 
 He .lifted his hat and departed. 
 
 " A perfect servant, that," said Don Gilberto, 
 looking after him. " One of the family as much as 
 the members of it. HJs own family brought up for 
 generations on the hacienda. Faithful, attached, 
 absolutely honest; his master would trust him with 
 anything, and be perfectly secure in doing so. Now 
 let us order dinner. That is something in which 
 one should never allow one's self to be hurried." 
 
 Two hours later the horses were at the door, bet- 
 ter-looking and better-equipped animals than In- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 2^ 
 
 graham had expected to see, with Miguel and an- 
 other mozo of less dignity in attendance. They 
 mounted; the inferior mozo took charge of the 
 sketching-trap; they clattered through the narrow 
 streets/and soon found themselves in the open coun- 
 try beyond. 
 
 In the course of the ride Ingraham discovered 
 that he had not up to this time appreciated the com- 
 panion whom fate had given him at that individ- 
 ual's full value. Perhaps Don Gilberto discerned 
 that the young man's interest in the expedition was 
 flagging, and desired to revive it. At all events, 
 he exerted himself to talk more entertainingly than 
 he had talked yet^, drawing upon an apparently in- 
 exhaustible store of knowledge of the country 
 through which they were passing — knowledge of 
 its past and present, its vicissitudes in war and peace, 
 its traditions and stories, its great families and es- 
 tates. Vivid, dramatic in the extreme and full of 
 wild romanticism, most of these stories were; and 
 as they rode onward in the golden afternoon, 
 through the wide valley, outspread like a pastoral 
 idyl and framed by hills of heavenly fairness, In- 
 graham had a pleasant sense of turning his back 
 upon the nineteenth century, with its prosaic jar 
 and fret, and entering into the heart of a land where 
 all the elements of romance appeared to meet and 
 mingle, where social conditions forgotten by the 
 modern world still existed, and all things seemed 
 possible to the fancy. 
 
 They made such good progress that in less than 
 the three hours of which Don Gilberto had spoken 
 he told Ingraham that they were well upon the 
 lands and fast approaching the residence of the 
 hacienda. " As far as the eye can reach," he added. 
 
28 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 with a comprehensive wave of the hand over the 
 valley, " once extended the estates of the family. 
 But they are now much reduced. The present ha- 
 cienda is not more than three leagues in extent." 
 
 " One can not exactly commiserate a man as a 
 pauper who possesses nine miles of such territory 
 as this," said Ingraham, looking over the richly 
 fertile lands around them. " By the bye, who is the 
 possessor? You have not yet mentioned his name." 
 
 " Don Luis Fernandez del Valle," replied the 
 other, in a tone which implied that the name meant 
 much. " There is no older family in Michoacan, 
 nor any which possessed in times past a greater in- 
 fluence. But they were unfortunate in the revolu- 
 tion; they found themselves on the losing side, and 
 ever since have been under a cloud. Nevertheless, 
 Don Luis is a man of great ambition. It is easy to 
 see that his heart is set on climbing the ladder to its 
 utmost height again. He has influence still — a Fer- 
 nandez del Valle must have that in Michoacan — but 
 he lacks money; and here, as elsewhere, money is 
 the key that unlocks all doors. I know his ambi- 
 tions, I know that he has been much in Mexico of 
 late, and I know also that nothing is gained in 
 Mexico without this " — ^he made the significant ges- 
 ture with the forefinger and thumb which means 
 coin: " therefore I have brought you to see the Ve- 
 lasquez. At this time — ^for he desires much- to be 
 our next governor — he will be tempted to sell it 
 as he may never be tempted again." 
 
 " Let me only be assured that the Velasquez is 
 genuine," said Ingraham, whose hopes began to 
 revive a little, " and I think I can offer him a tempta- 
 tion that, under such circumstances, he is not likely 
 to resist." 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 29 
 
 " I have no fear of your opinion of the Velasquez," 
 said the other, with a confidence which if assumed 
 was very well acted. " But some diplomacy will be 
 necessary, and that you must leave to me. Mean- 
 while, here we are at the gates. Yonder is the casa 
 grande." 
 
 As the great gateway was thrown open and they 
 passed through,' Ingraham saw before him, crown- 
 ing a gentle slope and in strong relief against a 
 darkly-green, wooded mountain, that seemed to 
 rise almost immediately in the rear but was in real- 
 ity a mile or two distant, one of the most picturesque 
 piles, and most strongly suggestive of a feudal cas- 
 tle, that he had yet seen in the country. Built of 
 gray stone, with the solidity of a fortress, in two 
 stately stories — the lower massive and solid as if 
 for defence, the upper arcaded on the sides that were 
 visible — and with the beautiful open belfry of a 
 chapel rising at one end, it looked, in its noble pro- 
 portions and massive strength, capable of defying 
 time and change, and of sheltering generations with- 
 in its gray old walls for centuries yet to come, as 
 during centuries of the past. 
 
 " A fine old house, isn't it? " Don Gilberto ob- 
 served, as they rode up the slope that led to the 
 open space in front of its vast, arched entrance. " I 
 said to myself that it would be certain to delight you. 
 And yonder is Don Luis awaiting us in the door. 
 Ah, mi amigo, how goes it with you ! " 
 
30 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Altogether in harmony with the house on the 
 threshold of which he stood, was the man upon 
 whom Ingraham's glance fell at the last words of 
 his companion. A tall and stately figure in the 
 richly picturesque dress which Mexican gentlemen 
 now seldom wear except on their estates, he had 
 the poise and bearing of one accustomed to com- 
 mand, while his face, with its look of power in the 
 breadth of the olive brow, the bold chiselling of the 
 features, and the expression of the deep dark eyes, 
 recalled the type of those great. Spaniards of the 
 sixteenth century who conquered and ruled a new 
 world. " What a subject for a picture ! " the young 
 man said to himself as his glance took in the whole 
 scene — the great archway, the court with its pillars 
 opening in perspective behind, and the figure of the 
 haciendado as he stood in his dress of dark cloth 
 laced and embroidered with silver, his handsome 
 head uncovered, showing its fine intellectual out- 
 lines. As the horsemen drew up, he came forward, 
 and, Don Gilberto throwing himself from his saddle, 
 the two men embraced and patted each other on the 
 back in the fashion of the country. Then the latter 
 turned toward Ingraham, who had meanwhile dis- 
 mounted. 
 
 " I was not able in my despatch to let you know 
 whom I was bringing you," he said to his host; 
 " but I have now the pleasure of introducing a dis- 
 tinguished painter from the States, Seiior In- 
 graham." 
 
 " I am happy to make the acquaintance of Senor 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 31 
 
 Ingraham, and to welcome him to my house," said 
 Don Lviis, in excellent English, as he grasped the 
 young man's extended hand. 
 
 " Senor Ingraham speaks Spanish perfectly," ob- 
 served Don Gilberto. 
 
 Ingraham laughed at this transparent flattery. 
 " Very far from perfectly, seiior," he said to Don 
 Luis, " but sufficiently to understand and be under- 
 stood. Not half so well, however, as you speak Eng- 
 lish." 
 
 " Oh, it is not perfect by any means, my Eng- 
 lish," replied Don Luis, with a slight, deprecating 
 gesture, " but I have travelled in your country and 
 in England, and have had the practice which you 
 perhaps have lacked in Spanish. But enter, seiior, 
 eiiter! This house" — he indicated it by a graceful 
 gesture as they passed under the great portal — " is 
 yours. Honour me by considering it so." ' 
 
 A paved court, in which a thousand men-at-arms 
 might have manoeuvred with ease, was surrounded 
 by apartments of various uses, the most of which 
 were plairily storehouses and domestic offices. On 
 one side, near the entrance, a broad stone staircase 
 led to the second story. Up this the three gentle- 
 men proceeded, Don Gilberto explaining as they 
 went how his friend was an enthusiast in art and 
 very anxious to see all the fine paintings in Mexico, 
 so he (Don Gilberto) could not fail to introduce to 
 his notice the Velasquez of the Fernandez del Valle. 
 By the time this had been explained, they had passed 
 across a landing at the turn of the staircase, and, 
 mounting its second flight, found themselves on a 
 wide, tile-paved corridor, or gallery, which encir- 
 cled the four inner sides of the court. Here a lady 
 received them. She was advanced in age and very 
 
32 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 plainly dressed, but had the same stately figure, the 
 same fine patrician head, as Don Luis. Don Gil- 
 berto hastened forward to greet her, and the master 
 of the house presented the new guest. 
 
 " Here, my mother," he said, " is a distinguished 
 painter from the States, whom our good friend Gil- 
 berto has done us the favour of bringing to our 
 house. And this, senor, is my mother, the Se- 
 nora Dofia Antonia Romero de Fernandez del 
 Valle." 
 
 Ingraham bowed deeply, but the lady held out 
 her hand with a cordial gesture. " You are wel- 
 come, seiior," she said. " Do us the honour to con- 
 sider our house as your own. You come from 
 Patzcuaro to-day?" 
 
 " From Morelia, seiiora." 
 
 " In that case you must be tired, and ready for 
 the merienda. You will take a cup of chocolate? 
 Come, Gilberto, my friend." 
 
 " With your permission, a little later, Doiia An- 
 tonia," replied that gentleman;' " Where is Carmen, 
 that she has no greeting for me?" 
 
 " She has probably not heard that you have ar- 
 rived," Dona Antonia answered. " But yes — ^here 
 she comes." 
 
 And along the corridor at that moment came a 
 girl, hastening with quick, light steps toward them, 
 who seemed to Ingraham's firstcareless glance little 
 more than a child. She was dressed in the extreme 
 of simplicity, her gown of cotton print was fashioned 
 as plainly as possible, and the only touch of grace 
 about her costume was the reboza, of some silky ma- 
 terial and soft neutral tint, which she wore thrown 
 over her head and wound in drapery about her neck- 
 and shoulders. So quiet and reserved was her air. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 33 
 
 SO childlike and %nworldly her aspect, that as she 
 advanced she looked like some young novice from 
 the cloister. 
 
 It was only when she reached them and lifted 
 her face toward her father that Ingraham perceived 
 with surprise that she was possessed of a beauty 
 which he would not have expected to find in Don 
 Gilberto's daughter. It was a beauty like the bril- 
 liancy of flowers, that struck upon the senses at once 
 and left no room for question — at least to an artist's 
 eye, though it was possible that her timidity and 
 lack of manner might have concealed it to an or- 
 dinary observer. Later, Ingraham knew the details 
 of the face by heart, 'but now he only received an 
 impression of exquisite fairness of complexion, deli- 
 cately-chiselled features, and dark Spanish eyes, of 
 wonderful softness and beauty, set under finely-pen- 
 pilled brows. The hair, which her rebozo almost 
 entirely covered, but which showed in delicate rings 
 and tendrils about her temples,, was of purest gold 
 — not the pale tint sometimes called by that name, 
 but the ruddy hue of the precious metal itself. As 
 she turned her head the same hair was to be seen 
 hanging in two shining plaits, like braided sun- 
 shine, down her back as far as her waist. 
 
 Don Gilber'to met and embraced her aflfection- 
 ately. " Ah, Carmencita," he said, " it is a pleasure 
 to see thee again! We miss thee much at home, 
 but thou art well and happy here with thy good 
 madrina, no? One has only to look at thee to see 
 it." 
 
 "Very well and happy, papa," the girl answered, 
 with the caressing aoftness of Spanish speech. " And 
 are all well at home — mamma and the little ones? " 
 
 " All well, andpSlute thee with a hundred loving 
 
34 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 messages. Thy mother bade me say that she woyld 
 have sent some things she has for thee, had I not 
 left unexpectedly and in haste." 
 
 " You are on your way to the mine, papa? " 
 
 " No : this is my destination. I bring an Ameri- 
 can gentleman See, here is an opportunity 
 
 for thy English!" 
 
 He drew her forward as he spoke, and the dark 
 lustrous eyes looked, up at Ingraham, who on his 
 part regarded her with unconcealed admiration. 
 
 " This, Mr. Ingraham," said Don Gilberto, " is 
 my daughter. She is supposed to speak English; 
 but I fear it is very much a matter of supposition 
 only, for I have never been able to induce my chil- 
 dren to speak my own tongue." 
 
 " That is because we know that we do not speak 
 it well," said the girl, essaying the language with a 
 charming blush and a very foreign accent. " But 
 it will give me much pleasure to try to speak with 
 Mr. " 
 
 " Ingraham," said that gentleman, as she paused. 
 " It is a name rather hard of pronunciation for lips 
 accustomed to Spanish sounds. But one's name 
 is like one's temperament: one can't get rid df it." 
 
 " Follow my example and translate it," said Don 
 Gilberto. " What is your Christian name? " 
 
 " Ralph. As untranslatable as , Ingraham, I 
 fear." 
 
 " On the contrary. Ralph is plainly Raphael, 
 and that is a very common name with us. So we 
 will christen you Don Rafael. That is better than 
 Mr. Ingraham, Doiia Antonia, eh?" 
 
 " Much easier for us, at least," answered Dona 
 Antonia, smiling. " And you do not object, seiior? " 
 
 " I am delighted," Ingraham replied. " It seems 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS 'CRUCES. 35 
 
 to make me a more picturesque and interesting per- 
 son in my own eyes. I shall feel flattered if you will 
 allow me to be Don Rafael as long as I am within 
 the walls of " 
 
 " Las Cruces," supplied Dop Luis, as he in turn 
 paused. " That is the name of our hacienda, seiior. 
 But here are some more members of the family, who 
 have come to greet an old friend and welcome a 
 new one." 
 
 A group of children — a girl of ten or eleven, a 
 boy two or three years younger, and a tiny maiden 
 of four or five^came trooping along the corridor 
 as -he spoke, and were presented .to Ingraham by 
 Dofia Antonia, as Elvira, Arturo, and Concha. 
 " The children of my son," she added. " Their 
 mother is dead." 
 
 These small persons saluted the stranger with 
 the graceful courtesy in which Mexican children 
 are carefully trained, and then threw themselves, as 
 it were, upon Don Gilberto, with whom they were 
 evidently on terms of closest intimacy and who 
 plainly stood high in their regard. They were still 
 clinging around him as the entire party moved, at 
 Dofia Antonia's second bidding, toward the dining- 
 room for the merienda, or afternoon collation. 
 
 The room which they entered seemed to In- 
 graham, in its immense size and the extent of the 
 table that filled its centre, as suggestive of feudal 
 customs and traditions as everything else around 
 him. Unlimited hospitality seemed expressed by 
 the board at which fifty guests might have found 
 place; while the simplicity of remoteness and earlier 
 times breathed in the absence of any adornment to 
 the apartment, which, to modern eyes, was almost 
 austere in its bareness. Yet not ugly, for the walls 
 
36 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 and ceiling were covered with the bright, delicate 
 fresco-painting in which Mexicans excel, and the 
 great windows framed enchanting glimpses of 
 distant mountains, plains, and sky. The little party 
 gathered at one end of the long table, cups of foam- 
 ing chocolate were brought to them by a mozo 
 dressed in spotless white cotton, and Ingraham as 
 he sipped the fragrant beverage said to himself that 
 he had been fortunate indeed in embarking upon 
 this adventure. Where could he possibly hope to 
 find anything more novel, picturesque, idyllic, than 
 such surroundings? And of the quality of the peo- 
 ple who dwelt within these walls he had not enter- 
 tained a moment's doubt since he first stepped under 
 the doorway. More wealthy and consequently more 
 influential they might, have been in the past, but 
 never more emphatically of the class to whom the 
 inheritance of good blood, and the qualities and 
 virtues which in other times were supposed to ac- 
 company such an inheritance, had conie down 
 through centuries. Every artist is in greater or less 
 degree a physiognomist, and he had no difficulty in 
 reading the characteristics imprinted on the counte- 
 nance of his host as the latter sat in a stream of light 
 from an open door, his striking head thrown into re- 
 lief against the delicately-painted wall behind him. 
 " Ambitious, yes," the young man thought, re- 
 membering what Don Gilberto had said; " but un- 
 scrupulous, no. This man could not, if he tried, lose 
 the sense of honour. He is born to rule, however 
 — his brow and nose prove that — ^and rule he will, 
 unless circumstances are too overpoweringly against 
 him. He is also very proud, too proud to be arro- 
 gant, and altogether a very fine specimen of what 
 one finds in but few places in the world now, the 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 37 
 
 born seigneur. Dona Antonia belongs to the same 
 order. No, the Velasquez may not be genuine — 
 most likely it is not — but, if so, these people are not 
 aware of the fact. A fraud in this house is impos- 
 sible." 
 
 Meanwhile the Velasquez was naturally the topic 
 of conversation, and Don Luis, with some surprise 
 that any one should have thought it worth such a 
 jotirney perceptible in his manner, was giving its 
 history to the stranger. 
 
 " That it is a genuine Velasquez, senor," he said, 
 answering Ingraham's thoughts, " I am unable to 
 declare with certainty, for I am myself no judge 
 of works of art, and we have no evidence concern- 
 ing it beyond a family tradition that has never been 
 questioned. There is no doubt, however, that about 
 two centuries ago one of our ancestors, the Mar- 
 ques Fernandez del Valle, resided many years in 
 Spain, where he was a great favourite at court, 
 owing to his immense wealth, which he spent lav- 
 ishly, and his many gifts and graces of person and 
 mind. At this time the celebrated Velasquez was 
 the court painter, and there seems, therefore, noth- 
 ing improbable in the story that he painted the por- 
 trait of the young wife of the Marques — a Spanish 
 lady of great beauty and high rank. The portrait 
 was painted, it is thought, immediately after the 
 marriage, following which the married pair led a 
 very gay and brilliant life in Madrid for several 
 years, and the Marquesa became as great a favour- 
 ite at court as her husband. But suddenly this bril- 
 liant life came to an end. There was a tragedy — 
 we know not the particulars. But one of the great- 
 est nobles of the court was found run through the 
 heart — it was said, in a private duel — and the Mar- 
 
38 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 ques abruptly returned to Mexico, bringing his wife 
 with him. They did not make their home in the 
 capital, as every one anticipated, but came here at 
 once; and after the Marquesa had once entered 
 this house, she never left it again until she died a 
 few years later. There are stories that she was a 
 prisoner, and that in loneliness and solitude — for 
 the Marques was seldom here — she expiated some 
 great sin. But she was very beautiful, and her Hfe 
 ended very sadly, so we will endeavour to think no 
 ill of her. It is possible that there had been some 
 great mistake." 
 
 " It is a story that adds interest to the picture," 
 said Ingraham. "Poor lady! whether she were 
 guilty or innocent, it was a hard fate to be torn from 
 the most brilliant court in Europe and brought here 
 to be imprisoned." 
 
 Don Luis shrugged his shoulders. "In those 
 days," he said, " men like the Marques were abso- 
 lute lords, in all except life and death, of those 
 dependent on them. And I should not call the pun- 
 ishment severe. Even now there would be few to 
 blame him had he run his sword through her heart 
 also. As it was, he gave her time for penance, 
 granting that she had anything to repent. But now, 
 as I perceive that you have finished your chocolate, 
 I will have the pleasure of showing you the portrait 
 of the lady herself. You will, no doubt, be able to 
 judge whether or not it is the work of the great 
 painter to whom it is credited." 
 
 Ingraham rose with alacrity. Few and simple 
 as the words of the story had been, they sufficed to 
 fill his imagination with suggestions of passion and 
 tragedy that were like a sensible atmosphere about 
 him as he walked with his host around the wide, 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 39 
 
 arcaded corridors, and thought of the expiating 
 penance wrought out within these fortess-Uke walls. 
 A beautiful, mournful presence seemed to glide be- 
 fore him and lift appealing eyes to the blue, alien 
 sky that overarched the court. How often, in the 
 long sadness of her exile, had the Marquesa walked 
 here, and thought, no doubt, of the brilliant days 
 that had once been hers in distant Spain! This in- 
 terest in the human story, for the time, overpowered 
 that which he felt in the authenticity of the paint- 
 ing. Whether Velasquez or another had painted 
 it, he should like to see the portrait of the dead 
 woman whose story had taken so strong a hold upon 
 his imagination. 
 
 Presently, on. the side of the great quadrangle 
 over the entrance, Don Luis paused, and, pushing 
 open a door, drew back with punctilious courtesy, 
 and by a gesture invited his guest to enter. In- 
 graham hesitated, for, in contrast to the brilliant 
 light which filled the court, all looked dark within; 
 but Don Gilberto, taking his arm, led him forward 
 into what he then perceived to be a large and lofty 
 'sala, the windows of which were closed by heavy 
 wooden shutters that excluded all light. Don Luis 
 crossed the floor and opened one of these, letting 
 in a flood of sunshine, and giving at the same time 
 so marvellous a view of valley and distant mountains 
 that at another moment Ingraham would have had 
 eyes for nothing else. But now he was absorbed 
 in the aspect of the room thus revealed — one alto- 
 gether characteristic of such great old Mexican 
 houses as that in which he stood. While superb 
 in space and noble in proportion, it contained very 
 little furniture; and what it did contain was of most 
 undoubted antiquity. Indeed, it might readily be 
 
40 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 that the apartment had undergone no change worth 
 consideration since the Marques of Don Luis's 
 story had brought from Spain those richly-carved 
 seventeenth-century cabinets, those old chairs lined 
 with Spanish leather, and the quaintly-inlaid sofa 
 which occupied the place of honour at the head of 
 the room, with rows of chairs facing each other on 
 each side, and the tawny skin of an immense toro 
 spread before it on the floor, giving, as it were, a 
 touch of the wild, primitive life of the vast Mexican 
 plains to what would else have seemed an apart- 
 ment transported from some ancient castle of Spain. 
 
 " What a fine old room ! " exclaimed Ingraham, 
 speaking his impressions aloud with artistic frank- 
 ness. "And what harmony in everything! There 
 is scarcely an article here less than two centuries 
 old. I never dreamed of finding such an apartment 
 in America." 
 
 "You are in Mexico, seiior," said Don Luis, 
 "where we are very old, and where we still cling 
 to many things that you in your country have dis- 
 carded." 
 
 " We have never had an opportunity to discard 
 anything like this," said Ingraham, looking around 
 with covetous eyes. " Our country was for the 
 most part a howling wilderness, and the few settlers 
 in it were living in log cabins and fighting Indians, 
 when your stately ancestors were surrounding them- 
 selves with such pomp and luxury as this, and liv- 
 ing like Oriental princes on tljeir vast estates. By 
 Jove! I should like to have had a Mexican an- 
 cestor! What superb Cordova leather! " 
 
 Don Luis smiled. The type of Americans whom 
 he had previously known would have pitied, if they 
 had not sneered at, the antiquated character of his 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 41 
 
 surroundings, and would have been capable of ad- 
 vising him to furnish his room in modern style. It 
 was a new and agreeable sensation to see a repre- 
 sentative of the most modern, society stand ab- 
 sorbed in admiration before relics of the past which 
 it is to be feared the Fernandez del Valle themselves 
 had never rated at their true value. 
 
 " Come, come," said Don Gilberto, who knew 
 the sala too well to find it interesting, and who 
 would himself have preferred a little more modern 
 furnishing, " you want to see the picture. It is 
 yonder at the end of the room. With your permis- 
 sion, Don Luis, I will open another window." 
 
 He walked down the spacious apartment, the 
 others following, and as they paused before a paint- 
 ing that in the obscurity could ohly be dimly per- 
 ceived, he unbarred one of the heavily-shuttered 
 windows opposite. Throwing it open, a flood of 
 light poured over the canvas, and Ingraham, step- 
 ping back,'uttered an uncontrollable .exclamation. 
 
 " How beautiful! " he cried; and then, " It is a 
 Velasquez, by heaven! " 
 
 To an artist of the school that holds no higher 
 name in art than that of the great Spanish painter, 
 this was a supreme and thrilling moment. A Velas- 
 quez, buried here on this remote Mexican hacienda! 
 It seemed incredible; and indeed, in the shock of 
 his surprise, Ingraham knew how little he had cred- 
 ited it; and yet it was true ! He had not a moment's 
 
42 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 doubt of its genuineness as he stood gazing at the 
 picture like one entranced. He had not spent weeks 
 in the gallery of Madrid, steeping his spirit in the 
 contemplation of the master's works, to be mistaken 
 in one of them now. No other hand than that of 
 Velasquez, he could have sworn, had held the brush 
 which laid those colours on the canvas before him. 
 And what a superb example of the painter's best 
 work it was, as if, delighting in the beauty of his 
 subject, he had lavished all his skill upon it! With 
 an honest rush of enthusiasm the young man turned 
 to Don Luis. 
 
 " There is not a finer Velasquez in any gallery 
 of Europe — no, not even in Madrid! " he said, em- 
 phatically. 
 
 Instantly he felt a slight but significant touch 
 upon his arm. Don Gilberto,- standing just behind 
 him, was evidently shocked at a proceeding so un- 
 business-like as praising the wares he desired to 
 purchase. Ingraham with difficulty restrained a 
 laugh. He had forgotten the character of possible 
 purchaser and speculator in which he had come; 
 but he never remembered with a greater sense of 
 satisfaction than at this moment the comfortable 
 balance lying at his banker's. If the picture could 
 be purchased, he vowed to himself that it should 
 be his, no matter what the cost might be. Mean- 
 while Don Luis replied, quietly — 
 
 " It has always been esteemed a fine picture, 
 seiior. And she was very beautiful, the Marquesa, 
 no?" 
 
 " So beautiful that she was worthy of having 
 Velasquez for her painter," Ingraham answered. 
 " It is no wonder that tragedy centred about her. 
 Such a woman is born to make tragedies." 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 43 
 
 And indeed he would have been dull who could 
 have doubted this, looking at the brilliant, imperi- 
 ous face, its beautiful lips slightly touched with dis- 
 dain, and its dark, splendid eyes filled with depths 
 of possible passion, gazing out of the canvas straight 
 into the heart of whosoever looked upon her. In- 
 graham- felt a" shiver pass over him as he met those 
 eyes, something akin to the shudder that supersti- 
 tion says marks the moment when an unconscious 
 foot treads over the spot that will be one's grave 
 Across the centuries they seemed still speaking a 
 language as old and as young as time,, the language 
 of an enchantment that might steal away the senses 
 like the cup of Circe. It was plain that this woman 
 had in life owned no common spell, but one equal 
 in degree to her surpassing beauty. The superb 
 figure stood in its robes of pearl-embroidered satin 
 and brocade against one of those deep yet lumious 
 backgrounds of Velasquez which are the despair 
 of modern painters, while every line and tint of the 
 face was laid upon the canvas with so matchless a 
 realism that the proud, delicate features, the hair 
 of wonderful red-gold, and the deep dark eyes, 
 seemed like an image upon a mirror, so strong was 
 the impression produced of vigorous potent life. 
 And, as he gazed, what resemblance was it which 
 grew upon Ingraham in that fair and fascinating 
 countenance? For a few minutes he struggled to 
 grasp it; then, as if with a flash of inspiration, he 
 turned to Don Gilberto. 
 
 " Do you not perceive a striking resemblance 
 in your daughter to this portrait? " he asked. 
 
 "In my daughter — Carmen?" repeated Don 
 Gilberto, much surprised. " No, I have never ob- 
 served it. Yet — now that you make the suggestion 
 
44 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 — I do perceive a likeness, though I should not call 
 it striking." 
 
 " That is because there is a great difference of 
 expression," said Ingraham. " In point of fact it is 
 very striking, for the colouring and the features are 
 almost identical in the two faces. Put your daughter 
 in a dress like this, give her the bearing of a woman 
 of the world accustomed to command and adula- 
 tion, above all, rouse in her the knowledge of her 
 own power and the will to exercise it, and you would 
 think that the Marquesa herself stood before you 
 restored to life." 
 
 Speaking with that subtle instinct of the artist 
 which sees below the surface so much that is hidden 
 from ordinary eyes, the young man in his enthusi- 
 asm forgot the personal nature of his comments. 
 But it was evident that he interested as well as sur- 
 prised his auditors. Don Luis looked at the picture 
 with a new attention, as if deriving from it a new 
 impression, and then, with the quiet decision that 
 characterised his utterances, said — 
 
 " You are right, seiior. No one has ever ob- 
 served it before, but Carmen is indeed like this pic- 
 ture. The Marquesa, you understand, is her ances- 
 tress, as well as mine; but it is surely strange that a 
 likeness should appear in so remote a descendant." 
 
 " Not so strange as you imagine," replied In- 
 graham. " In every old race these resemblances 
 have a trick of reappearing in different generations. 
 One can trace them only by means of family por- 
 traits; but I have never seen a gallery of such por- 
 traits in a great house in Europe without being 
 struck by the manner in which some strong individ- 
 ual type has laid, as it were, its impress on the race 
 and can be traced now and again through its gen- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 45 
 
 erations for centuries. If you could bring here the 
 portraits of the women of your house since the day 
 when the original of this picture entered it, I would 
 wager much that you would find her type recurring 
 at intervals, sometimes after having long lain dor- 
 mant. But seldom, I think, could it have been re- 
 produced more faithfully than in the present genera- 
 tion." 
 
 " The likeness is astonishing, now that one's 
 attention is drawn to it," said Don Luis, still gazing 
 at the picture. " And it is more astonishing still 
 that nobody has ever before observed it." 
 
 Ingraham smiled. " Pardon me," he said, " but 
 that is not astonishing either. You never thought 
 of looking for such a likeness ; and it is, moreover, 
 disguised by the great difference of expression and 
 manner." 
 
 " So well disguised," said Don Gilberto, " that I 
 think you must possess remarkable powers of pene- 
 tration to have discovered it, and that after seeing 
 Carmen only once." 
 
 " An artist sees these things at a glance," In- 
 graham answered. " And the resemblance was the 
 more readily perceived by me because I looked at 
 both faces as a stranger. Familiarity dulls percep- 
 tion." 
 
 " There is at least no doubt that you are right," 
 said Don Gilberto, who was evidently well pleased 
 at this indisputable proof of the good blood that 
 flowed in his daughter's veins. " The likeness grows 
 upon one! Those are Carmen's eyes, features, hair! 
 Caramba! How have we been so blind as never to 
 observe it before? If she were dressed like this pic- 
 ture, it would indeed be the Marquesa herself 
 brought to life!" 
 4 
 
46 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 "An experiment I should like to make," said 
 Ingraham, " would be to paint her portrait in the 
 same manner as this — may the shade of Velasquez 
 forgive my presumption ! — and thus display fully all 
 the points of likeness and of difference. It would 
 be very interesting." 
 
 Don Gilberto looked at Don Luis. " Mi amigo," 
 he said, " is there any reason why Sefior Ingraham 
 should not make such an experiment? I, too, 
 should find it interesting." 
 
 Don Luis made a gesture which even before he 
 spoke seemed to place Las Cruces and all that it 
 contained at his guest's disposal. " If Sefior In- 
 graham will consider my house his own and com- 
 mand everything in it, he will confer the greatest 
 favour upon me," he said. " As for the experiment 
 of which he speaks, it could not possibly be other 
 than interesting to all of us." 
 
 " I really spoke without considering it a practi- 
 cal possibility," said Ingraham, " and yet " He 
 
 paused. After all, why not make it a practical pos- 
 sibility? Leisure was his in unlimited degree, and, 
 if Don Luis was to be taken seriously, unbounded 
 hospitality was offered him, while temptation could 
 hardly have worn more seductive form. A noble 
 Velasquez to study, an attractive original subject to 
 experiment with, and the inner life of a deeply inter- 
 esting people to be observed as few strangers ever 
 have an opportunity to observe it. Brief reflection 
 was required to show him that to let such opportuni- 
 ties as these escape would be an act of stupidity of 
 which he felt himself incapable. Moreover, his most 
 important business was, if possible, to secure the 
 Velasquez, and this he felt sure could be accom- 
 plished only by time and diplomacy. Any excuse 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 47 
 
 for staying at Las Cruces was therefore to be de- 
 sired. Tlie pause in which he weighed these con- 
 siderations was not more than a minute in length. 
 He looked up, met again the dark, imperious eyes 
 of the Marquesa, and turned to his host. 
 
 " Senior," he said, " I should like of all things 
 to paint the picture of which I have spoken, using 
 this portrait as a study. But to do so would require 
 a stay at Las Cruces of several weeks. Could I 
 venture to intrude upon your hospitality so long? 
 Pray answer me with the frankness of my race, 
 rather than with the courtesy of yours." 
 
 " I answer you," said Don Luis, smihng, " with 
 perfect frankness when I tell you that your stay at 
 Las Cruces, prolong it as you will, can only be a 
 pleasure as well as an honour to us. I shall myself 
 take the greatest interest in watching the progress 
 of the picture which I sincerely hope you will paint." 
 
 " Then I shall certainly paint it," said Ingraham, 
 with emphasis, " if Dofia Carmen will consent to 
 sit to me." 
 
 " There is no doubt of her consent," said her 
 father. " She is but a child, and will do as she is 
 told. She is a woman, also," he added, " and will 
 be immensely flattered. Have no doubt about her.^' 
 
 " You will wish to paint here, sefior? " asked 
 Don Luis, with a glance around the sala. 
 
 " Here? Oh, no," Ingraham answered. " Have 
 you not some vacant room that I can use as a studio, 
 and to which this picture might be for a time re- 
 moved? " 
 
 " There are many vacant rooms," replied the 
 owner of the house. " Come, examine them, and 
 choose which will suit you best." 
 
 So it was a small procession, for Doiia Antonia's 
 
48 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 aid was invoked in the choice, which a little later 
 made the rounds of the many vacant chambers of 
 Las Cruces. Iilgraham was led into one vast apart- 
 ment after another around the great quadrangle of 
 the first court, and then around a second court be- 
 hind. There was not much difficulty in making a 
 choice. Any of these chambers, with their large 
 windows letting in floods of light, their tiled floors 
 and high vaulted ceilings, would have made an ideal 
 studio ; but he finally selected one on the rear court, 
 partly because of its greater seclusion and possible 
 immunity from interruiptions, but chiefly on account 
 of its north light. 
 
 " This will be perfect," he said, after he had un- 
 barred the windows and let in the radiance of the 
 vast depths of luminous sky. " If ever I am to 
 prove myself a successor of Velasquez, it should 
 be in such an atmosphere and amid such surround- 
 ings as these." 
 
 Dofia Antonia, who up to this time had only 
 heard that the young artist desired a room in which 
 to paint, now evinced curiosity with regard to what 
 was to be painted therein. " It will be your por- 
 trait, perhaps? " she said, addressing her son. 
 
 Don Luis shook his head. " The seiior has se- 
 lected a fairer subject," he replied. " He has been 
 much struck by the resemblance of Carmen to the 
 portrait of the Marquesa, and he wishes to make 
 an interesting experiment by painting her portrait 
 in the same manner." 
 
 " Her portrait ! " repeated Doiia Antonia, with 
 something of a gasp. " Not — Carmen's?" 
 
 " Yes, Carmen's," answered her son, quietly, 
 while Ingraham observed that a slight flush rose 
 into Don Gilberto's dark face. " Why not? She has 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 49 
 
 seemed a child to us until now, but the seiior here, 
 with his artist's eyes, has discovered that she is a 
 beautiful woman." 
 
 " Carmen ! " said Dona Antonia again. It 
 seemed impossible for her to restrain the expression 
 of her astonishment, and of something evidently 
 deeper than astonishment, some angered sense of 
 a violation of the fitness of things. She drew her- 
 self up, the grande dame showing in every line of 
 her figure and face. " I should have thought," she 
 said, " that if any portrait was to be painted in this 
 house it would be of yourself, its head, or perhaps 
 of the children " 
 
 Don Gilberto, with a slight motion to Ingraham, 
 walked across the room and paused by one of the 
 open windows-. " You see how it is," he said, with- 
 out looking around, as the young man came to his 
 side. " Dona Antonia's sense of the importance 
 of the family is outraged that you have not chosen 
 Don Luis, or one of the children, or perhaps her- 
 self, as your subject, instead of Carmen." 
 
 " But I don't understand," said Ingraham. " Is 
 not your daughter one of the family also? " 
 
 " My daughter is — my daughter," replied the 
 other, a little bitterly, " and that means nothing 
 here. On her mother's side she is a distant and ob- 
 scure connection — what we call at home a poor re- 
 lation — of the Fernandez del Valle, and as such they 
 recognise her, treat her with tolerant kindness, but 
 never for one moment think of her as a social equal. 
 You will soon find what is her position — ^that of a 
 dependant merely — and you will not then be sur- 
 prised at this old woman's indignation." 
 
 " But I fancied " began Ingraham, and then 
 
 paused, somewhat at a loss to express himself. 
 
so 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 " You fancied," interposed the other, with the 
 tone of bitterness still in his voice, " that, because 
 it is ' mi amigo ' and all things smooth and courteous 
 on the surface, these proud people forget that I am 
 a poverty-stricken stranger, who lives by his wits, 
 and that Carmen is my daughter, with only a few 
 drops of their blood to render her worthy of notice. 
 Not at all. I have won a certain place with them 
 because I can be of use — my wits, you see, being 
 rather keen — and she is Doiia Antonia's god- 
 daughter, and a pet in her childhood of the old lady's. 
 But, for all that, our place is below the salt, you 
 understand, and I fancy the project of the portrait 
 will have to be abandoned." 
 
 " Never! " said Ingraham, with energy. " I 
 don't know when I have been so possessed by the 
 idea of a picture; and sooner than abandon it I will 
 paint the whole family — including Doiia Antonia 
 herself! Portrait-painting is not my line; but I dare 
 say I can manage to hit off such marked types. 
 And Don Luis is a fine subject. I should rather 
 enjoy painting him." 
 
 " Before you undertake so large a commission," 
 said the other, dryly, " why not consider the alterna- 
 tive of negotiating at once for the Velasquez, taking 
 it away, and then, if you like, painting Carmen at 
 your leisure in MoreUa? " 
 
 " Because," replied Ingraham, after a short hesi- 
 tation, " I do not believe that Don Luis would enter- 
 tain the idea of parting with the picture, if the pro- 
 posal were sprung upon him at once. I think that 
 time will be required to bring him to the point of 
 even considering it; and it was this belief which 
 made me take the opportunity for delay afforded 
 by the plan of painting your daughter's portrait. 
 
\ 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 51 
 
 But you know the man better than I do. If you 
 think he can be tempted, sound him at once. There 
 is no delay necessary on my part." 
 
 Don Gilberto regarded the speaker with some 
 surprise. The tone of the last words seemed to him 
 rather remarkable to be assumed by a mere pro- 
 ducer of pictures. " Are you prepared," he asked, 
 " to make any offer? " 
 
 " Certainly," Ingraham replied, promptly. 
 " Offer him ten thousand dollars." Then, catching 
 the increasing surprise of his companion's look, he 
 added, with a recollection of his assumed charac- 
 ter, " I run no risk in saying this. The picture will 
 easily bring twenty thousand in the world. That 
 will give ten thousand to divide between us." 
 
 " You are so certain of its value as that? " asked 
 the other, cautiously. 
 
 "Absolutely certain," replied the young man, 
 impatiently. " Here comes Don Luis. Speak to 
 him if you will; but I have little idea that he will 
 entertain the proposal — now." 
 
 " I must speak to him alone," said Don Gilberto, 
 hastily. " There are certain chords that I know 
 now to touch. Leave the matter to me." 
 
 " Sefior," said Don Luis, coming up to them 
 and addressing Ingraham, " my mother misunder- 
 stood a little the object of your painting, but, now 
 that I have made her comprehend, she is quite will- 
 ing that you shall do as you like in the matter. You 
 will understand that it was impossible to proceed 
 without her consent, since she is not only the 
 mistress of the house, but Carmen is her god- 
 daughter." 
 
 Ingraham bowed. " Doila Antonia is very kind 
 to give her consent to a painter's caprice," he said. 
 
52 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 " There now remains only one other person's con- 
 sent to gain." 
 
 Don Gilberto with a smile pointed through the 
 open door. " Yonder is Carmen," he said. " Go 
 and satisfy yourself that her consent is easily 
 gained." 
 
 VI. 
 
 Carmen was passing along the corridor without, 
 intent upon some household duty, when, to her great 
 surprise, the American stranger issued from an un- 
 expected quarter — a room that she knew to be un- 
 occupied — and addressed her. 
 
 " Pardon me, senorita," he said, in Spanish, 
 which he judged to be a better vehicle of communi- 
 cation than her English, "but I have your father's 
 permission to make a request of you." 
 
 " Of me, senor? " she said, pausing with the 
 look of a startled fawn. 
 
 " Yes, of you," he answered. " But first let me 
 inquire if you have ever observed the portrait of 
 your ancestress, the Marquesa, which you know I 
 have come here to see? " 
 
 The surprise on her face deepened, and her large 
 dark eyes opened widely with something which 
 seemed to him almost apprehension. " Surely, 
 seiior," she replied. " I have seen it all my life." 
 
 " Seen it, yes — but observed it, I said. For in- 
 stance, have you ever perceived that there exists 
 between that picture and yourself a striking resem- 
 blance? " 
 
 She looked at him now with what he could not 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 53 
 
 possibly mistake to be other than astonishment in 
 which there was not one element of flattered pleas- 
 ure, but rather of extreme repugnance. " A resem- 
 blance between myself and that portrait!" she re- 
 peated. " You must be mistaken, sefior. How 
 could such a thing be possible?" 
 
 " Possible or not, it is so," Ingraham replied. 
 " There is between yourself and that picture a strik- 
 ing likeness — more striking even than I supposed," 
 he added, as his gaze dwelt on her steadily. 
 
 Under that intent artist-gaze, which had not, 
 however, a tinge of impertinence in it, she flushed 
 deeply, and the thick-fringed lids sank over her 
 eyes. " If it is true, seiior, it is very strange," she 
 said. " I am but remotely connected with the fam- 
 ily of Fernandez del Valle, although they are kind 
 enough to acknowledge the relationship." 
 
 " Nevertheless the Marquesa is your common 
 ancestress, and you have inherited her face," said 
 Ingraham, positively. " It is not uncommon to 
 see such a type as hers reappearing at intervals 
 through generations," he went on. " I have just 
 remarked to Don Luis that I have often traced a 
 likeness of the kind in a gallery of family portraits. 
 But I never saw a more interesting example of the 
 possibility than you present." 
 
 And again the keen, intent look was fastened 
 on her face, as if through all outer differences he 
 perceived more and more the likeness of which he 
 spoke, as in truth he did perceive more clearly her 
 remarkable beauty, concealed though it was from 
 ordinary observation by lack of training, manner, 
 and dress. It was no wonder, he reflected, that he 
 had been the first to trace the resemblance which 
 existed between this unformed child and the bril- 
 
54 
 
 THE PICTURE OP LAS CRUCES. 
 
 liant court beauty whose imperious charm Velas- 
 quez had fixed upon his canvas. He felt the pride 
 of a discoverer in regarding her; and his fingers 
 fairly longed for the brush by means of which he 
 would be able to show to all what he alone now per- 
 ceived. 
 
 " And so I come, seiiorita," he continued, after 
 a brief pause, " to the favour I have to beg of you. 
 I wish to be permitted to paint your portrait. I hope 
 that you have no objection." 
 
 "To paint my portrait, sefior! " She seemed 
 able to do little more than echo his words, and Doiia 
 Antonia's displeased astonishment had not been 
 greater than that which spoke in her voice and now 
 uplifted eyes. " But — you will pardon me — why? " 
 
 Ingraham laughed. To answer frankly, " Be- 
 cause you are very beautiful, and full of undeveloped 
 possibilities which it will give me pleasure to de- 
 velop on my canvas," seemed too direct to meet 
 the case. So he might have spoken to a woman 
 of the world, but not to this girl in her ignorance 
 and simplicity. " Because you are, if you will allow 
 me to say so, a very good subject for a picture," he 
 replied, " and because it will interest me, and inter- 
 est your family, to see the likeness to the Marquesa 
 brought out and made evident, as I hope to make 
 it in my picture." 
 
 "But why, seilor?" she repeated, with an in- 
 sistence and a reluctance which surprised him. 
 " Why should you, or they, be interested in that? 
 What is it to any one if I chance to- look like this 
 woman who has been dead so long? " 
 
 " It is simply an interesting experiment, seiior- 
 ita," he replied, a, little at a loss how to explain to 
 her the delight he would take in the work for its 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 55 
 
 own sake, and the intense eagerness he felt to begin 
 it. " Your Ukeness to this portrait is wonderful in 
 my eyes, and, if you allow me to paint you, I will 
 make it equally wonderful to the eyes of others." 
 
 She did not answer immediately, and, remem- 
 bering her father's confident assertion that she 
 would make no difficulties, Irigraham wondered for 
 a moinent if her hesitation might not be set down 
 to coquetry; but a glance into the dark eyes made 
 him sure that it was not so. And then, for the first 
 time, he saw in those eyes that she was not alto- 
 gether the child which her appearance seemed to 
 indicate. In their depths there was something that 
 surprised him — an intelligence for which he was 
 not prepared, and a deep reluctance to agree to what 
 he asked which naturally only made him more eager 
 to obtain her consent. 
 
 " You are afraid of the experiment," he said, 
 quickly. " But I will make it easy for you. There 
 is really nothing to dread. I shall not fatigue you 
 with long sittings. And I shall make a very lovely 
 portrait. I promise you that. I do not flatter my- 
 self that I can develop the power of Velasquez; but 
 I have never before felt inspired as I feel inspired 
 by the thought of this picture. I am fairly thrilling 
 with the desire to get to work on it, and it will be 
 a terrible disappointment to me if you do not con- 
 sent to allow me to paint it." 
 
 In his eagerness he spoke in English, and so im- 
 petuously that it was difficult for the girl to follow 
 him; but the last words were intelligible to her, if 
 only from the appeal of look and tone which accom- 
 panied them. 
 
 " I should be sorry to disappoint you, sefior, 
 since you are so anxious," she said; " but if I speak 
 
56 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 the truth I must tell you that I feel a great dislike 
 to this which you ask." 
 
 " But why?" demanded Ingraham, impatiently. 
 " It is — it must be — because you have some totally 
 wrong idea about what is asked of you. I only want 
 you to sit to me for an hour of two every day, for a 
 time not exceeding a fortnight." 
 
 " The time does not matter at all," she answered, 
 gravely. " I would sit to you all day if it were neces- 
 sary. But it does not seem to me that there is any 
 necessity for this. If it is true that I resemble the 
 Marquesa, what does it matter, and why should 
 you wish to paint my portrait on that account? " 
 
 "It is difficult to explain, if you do not under- 
 stand " Ingraham began, with a sense of despair, 
 
 and then, to his relief, hearing footsteps and voices 
 approaching, he turned toward Don Gilberto and 
 Don Luis. " I am driven to invoke your assist- 
 ance," he said, addressing the former. " The senor- 
 ita has no desire to have the wonderful likeness 
 between herself and the beautiful Marquesa re- 
 vealed, and she is averse to the idea of sitting to me. 
 Can you not explain to her that I am not asking 
 anything very dreadful? " 
 
 " What is the matter, Carmencita? " demanded 
 Don Gilberto, turning to the girl. " Why are you 
 averse to sitting to the seiior, since he is kind enough 
 to wish to paint your portrait? " 
 
 " Because there does not seem to me any rea- 
 son for it, papa," she answered, looking at him with 
 the dislike to the idea of which she had spoken mani- 
 fest in her whole attitude and expression. 
 
 Don Gilberto frowned. He was not usually an 
 unamiable man, but when he frowned his family 
 knew that he was to be obeyed. Just now his 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 57 
 
 daughter's unexpected opposition irritated him ex- 
 ceedingly; for he had learned that Ingraham was 
 right, and that if Don Luis ever consented to sell 
 the Velasquez it would only be after long and care- 
 ful diplomacy had brought him to that point. It 
 was essential, therefore, that Ingraham should re- 
 main at Las Cruces in order to exercise this diplo- 
 macy ; and the only means by which he could remain 
 was through the excuse of the portrait. Don Gil- 
 berto was consequently little prepared to be patient 
 with his daughter's hesitation, and he drew his brows 
 together in a manner which plainly indicated as 
 much. 
 
 " This is nonsense ! " he said, shortly. " I have 
 promised Senor Ingraham that you would allow 
 him to paint your portrait, and I fancied that, like 
 any other woman, you would be flattered by his de- 
 siring to do so. Let me tell you that he is paying 
 you a compliment which you do not seem to appre- 
 ciate at all." 
 
 Carmen looked at Ingraham with a glance of 
 apology. " I am sorry," she said, " if the seiior 
 thinks that I do not appreciate his compliment. 
 It is no doubt very kind of him to wish to paint my 
 face; and since you also wish it, papa, I shall of 
 course be glad for him to do so." 
 
 The words, like the glance, were gentle and sub- 
 missive, but Ingraham was convinced that her re- 
 luctance to what he proposed was as great as ever. 
 He felt a momentary sense of compunction at hav- 
 ing, as it were, forced consent from her. But the 
 feehng was only momentary. He said to himself 
 that the dislike could only have its root in ignorance, 
 and that it would yield at once when she found how 
 little was demanded of her; while his fancy was too 
 
58 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 strongly set on painting the picture to deny him- 
 self the gratification. Moreover, like Don Gilberto, 
 he was sure that to obtain the Velasquez a stay at 
 Las Cruces was absolutely necessary. And other 
 excuse for staying, besides the painting of this por- 
 trait, there was none. 
 
 He therefore bowed gratefully. " It is you who 
 are kind, seiiorita," he said. " I should hardly feel 
 at liberty to accept your consent, since I think you 
 still feel a little reluctance in giving it, if I were not 
 sure that you will not find the ordeal at all dreadful, 
 and that you will soon be interested in the result 
 I hope to produce. Believe me — I speak with the 
 frankness of an artist — some day you will be glad 
 that such beauty as yours is not to pass out of the 
 world without leaving at least its shadow behind.'' 
 
 She gazed at him in surprise too great even for 
 embarrassment. Evidently, the idea of beauty as 
 connected with herself had never before entered her 
 mind. Nor was she the only person to whom it was 
 a new suggestion. Don Luis, for the first time in 
 his life, looked at her with the eyes of a stranger — 
 in fact, it might almost be said, for the first time in 
 his life looked at her at all — and he, too, perceived, 
 under the familiar aspect of the humble, child-like 
 favourite of his mother, the beauty which Ingraham 
 had at once discerned. Something in his eyes drew 
 Carmen's glance, and when she met his intent re- 
 gard — a regard as if he too were studying her as a 
 stranger — her astonishment suddenly broke into 
 confusion. She blushed deeply, and looked at him 
 appealingly. " The senior is laughing at me," she 
 said. 
 
 " No, Carmencita," Don Luis answered, kindly. 
 " He is not laughing. You have been a child to us. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 59 
 
 and we have not observed; but your likeness to the 
 portrait of the Marquesa is indeed wonderful, and 
 that means that you are very beautiful. It is true." 
 
 He spoke with the gravity of one who makes 
 an important announcement; and the girl, thus 
 solemnly assured of the fact of her own beauty, 
 stood for a moment as if uncertain what to do or 
 to say in a situation so entirely novel. Ingraham 
 watched her with amusement and interest. What 
 a new type she was! For the first time her indi- 
 viduality, apart from her physical perfection, ap- 
 pealed to his imagination. " She may prove an in- 
 teresting study in more ways than one, perhaps," he 
 thought. And then he said — 
 
 " The sefiorita must forgive me if I can not re- 
 frain from expressing surprise that the woman lives 
 who needs to be told that she is beautiful. My can- 
 vas must fulfil the neglected duty of her mirror in 
 proving it to her beyond a doubt. And, by the bye " 
 — ^he turned to Don Gilberto — " I have no canvas 
 with me of a suitable size. Can I obtain what I want 
 in Patzcuaro?" 
 
 " Doubtful," that gentleman replied. " But if 
 you will give me your measurements, I will send 
 what you want from Morelia. It means the delay 
 of only a day or two, for I shall return to-morrow." 
 
 " That will give a little time for Doiia Carmen 
 to become accustomed to the idea of standing for 
 her portrait," said Ingraham, with a smiling glance 
 at the girl. " I am anxious to copy the picture of 
 the Marquesa as far as possible in every detail, and 
 I only wish it were possible to duplicate the cos- 
 tume?' 
 
 " To duplicate may not be possible," said Don 
 Luis, " but there are in this house many rich old 
 
6o THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 dresses and stuffs belonging to the past, which I 
 am sure my mother will take pleasure in showing 
 to you. Among them you may find something suit- 
 able to your purpose." 
 
 " And do you think," said Ingraham, doubtfully, 
 " that Dona Antonia will consent? " 
 
 " I am sure of her consent," Don Luis replied. 
 " Let us find her." 
 
 To find Doiia Antonia was not difficult. They 
 met her on the corridor of the great court almost 
 as soon as they entered it, and when she heard the 
 request she smiled with a graciotisness which In- 
 graham did not expect. Her manner seemed to 
 say that, having by her son's desire consented to the 
 whim of the painter, she was willing to assist him 
 in carrying it out in all its details. Moreover, he 
 fancied that there was gratification in the alacrity of 
 her consent. Opportunities for exhibiting these 
 relics of the opulent past were doubtless few, and 
 Doiia Antonia was perhaps not sorry for an excuse 
 to draw them forth, and impress the gringo with their 
 splendour. 
 
 " Yes, we have many old costumes, seiior," she 
 said; " some that have been handed down for cen- 
 turies. They will interest you, and I shall have 
 pleasure in showing them to you, even if you do not 
 find what will serve your purpose. Come with me." 
 
 She led him into a spacious chamber which he 
 judged to be her own. Like all other rooms of the 
 house, it was simply and very sparely furnished, 
 containing two small, hard, narrow beds placed in 
 opposite corners, with yery primitive lavatory and 
 toilet arrangements, but Ingraham's glance fell at 
 once on several great carved chests of dark wood, 
 with heavy locks, fit companions for that chest in 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 6 1 
 
 which the hapless bride of " The Mistletoe Bough " 
 met her fate. In such chests the trousseau of a 
 princess might in old days have been conveyed over 
 land and sea. Doiia Antonia smiled at the quick- 
 ening interest of his glance. 
 
 " You like these, senor? " she said. " They are 
 very old and very secure. No one could easily carry 
 them away. There haye been times, valgame Dios! 
 when had they not been so immovable they would 
 have been carried away with all their contents. But 
 let us hope that those days will never come again.. 
 These I use for the clothing of the household at 
 present, but yonder stands one that has not been 
 opened for many years. It is full of ancient things. 
 We will examine it.'' 
 
 "What a lucky fellow I am!" thought In- 
 graham, as he saw the clumsy old keys fitted in the 
 ponderous locks. " Suppose I had not met Don 
 Gilberto on the Calzada of Morelia; I should have 
 missed all these delightful adventures." 
 
 But when the great lid of the chest was raised, 
 and two women whom Dona Antonia summoned 
 began to draw forth the treasures it contained, he 
 even forgot to congratulate himself on his good 
 fortune, so lost was he in admiration, so beset with 
 covetous desire to make some of thfse beautiful 
 things his own. For here were such rich old stuffs, 
 such exquisite embroideries, such brocades and 
 damasks, with tints harmoniously faded by time, 
 as he had never seen in equal profusion in the bric- 
 a-brac shops of Rome or Madrid. One after the 
 other they were lifted forth, until the whole room 
 seemed to glow with colour, and to suggest a hun- 
 dred memories of courts and palaces and those 
 grand ladies of the past, who in such superb fabrics 
 5 
 
62 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 gaze in stately splendour from the canvases of the 
 great painters. Here was a robe of richest Venetian 
 silk, mellowed, by time to an incomparable ivory 
 and covered with brocaded masses of flowers in tints 
 that simply ravished the eye. As the waiting- women 
 shook out its glistening folds and held it up, and 
 the children, who had been attracted as bees by 
 honey, cried out that it was " hermosissima," In- 
 graham turned quickly to Doria Antonia. 
 
 " Sefiora," he cried, " it is in this dress, above 
 all, that I should like to see the seriorita, and — if 
 you will graciously allow me — to paint her. It be- 
 longs to the same period as the portrait. I am suffi- 
 ciently a judge of styles and fabrics to be sure of 
 that; and if I am permitted to paint her in it, I 
 think that you can not fail to be charmed with the 
 result." 
 
 " Your judgment is good, seiior," Doiia Antonia 
 answered. " This dress is certainly of the same peri- 
 od as the portrait, for, according to a family tradi- 
 tion, it belonged to the Marquesa, and therefore 
 has been carefully handed down in all its details, 
 even to the shoes which were worn with it. Manu- 
 ela, are they not there?" 
 
 " Si, sefiora," answered the woman addressed, 
 lifting from the chest, as she spoke, several articles 
 that had fallen from the folds of the dress as it was 
 shaken out. Dona Antonia handed the shoes to 
 Ingraham. They were such as could hardly be 
 matched out of the collection of the Hotel de Cluny 
 — antique, very small, and fashioned of the same 
 rich brocade as the dress. A strange sensation as- 
 sailed the young man as he took them in his hand 
 and thought of the slender, arched feet that had 
 once worn them. It was difficult to realise how 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 63 
 
 long those feet had mouldered into dust, while he 
 held these shoes that still bore their shape and im- 
 press. 
 
 " This is far more than I could have ventured 
 to hope," he said, eagerly. " Senora, you will allow 
 me to paint Dona Carmen in this costume, is it not 
 so? You can not refuse what I shall esteem at once 
 a great privilege and a great pleasure! " 
 
 He looked at her entreatingly. Those who knew 
 him best often said that there was a very beguiling 
 quality about Ingraham when he chose to exert 
 it. Perhaps Dofia Antonia felt it now. She cer- 
 tainly smiled as she rhet his eyes. 
 
 " I know of no reason why you should not be 
 gratified, sefior," she said, after a slight hesitation. 
 " Carmen is in a certain sense a daughter of the 
 house, and it is therefore ■ not unfitting that she 
 should wear the dress. Would you like to see her in 
 it at once?" 
 
 "At once, if you will be so kind," replied In- 
 graham. " I am very curious to find whether her 
 resemblance to the portrait, which is ,in my eyes so 
 remarkable, will be increased or lessened by her 
 appearance in this dress." 
 
 " Go to the sala and wait," said Doila Antonia. 
 " I w.ill bring her to you presently." Then, turn- 
 ing to one of the women, she added, " Bid Dofia 
 Carmen come to me." 
 
64 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 VII. 
 
 It was by this time sunset, but a brilliant glow 
 from the western sky was filling the great sala with 
 glory as Ingralfam stood again before the Velasquez, 
 absorbed in admiration alike of the genius of the 
 painter and the beauty of his subject. In the flood of 
 light now pouring upon it, the portrait seemed more 
 than ever a thing of life, the splendid eyes held his 
 with a more potent enchantment, the lips smiled 
 with a more disdainful loveliness, and the whole 
 spell, alike of the woman and of the art that placed 
 her on the canvas, seemed more absolutely irresisti- 
 ble. Never had Velasquez appeared to him so great 
 as in the work his brush had wrought here; and 
 never had he felt himself thrilled to the heart by the 
 beauty of living woman as now by the mere shadow 
 of this woman whose sceptre had so long since been 
 wrested from her hand by death, and her magic 
 philter spilled. 
 
 " There is nothing those eyes might not lead a 
 man to forget," he said to himself as he gazed into 
 their mysterious depths and felt their fascination 
 like wine in his veins. " Good or bad, guilty or in- 
 nocent — ^who could look on her and ask such ques- 
 tions? One would have no alternative but to lay 
 one's heart down at her feet, that she might tread 
 on it if she liked. For such a woman men would 
 commit crimes and dare dangers without number. 
 I have never before comprehended how such things 
 
 might be; but now Thank God that you are 
 
 dead ! " he exclaimed, with sudden energy, speak- 
 ing aloud. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 65 
 
 A low, apparently irrepressible laugh sounded 
 behind him and made him turn quickly. In his 
 amazement he recoiled a step, for there stood the 
 woman he had addressed — alive. 
 
 The shock of surprise was so great that for a 
 moment he did not remember or comprehend that 
 Carmen stood before him. He only saw, hne for 
 line, tint for tint, the original of the portrait hang- 
 ing on the wall. The same red-gold tresses were 
 piled like a crown above the fair brow, the same 
 wonderful dark eyes gazed out of the beautiful face, 
 the same distinction was in the poise of the head 
 and the fine, melting lines of neck and shoulders, 
 the same rounded grace of form was revealed by 
 the perfectly fitting robe of rich old brocade, with its 
 accessories of pearl-embroidered stomacher and 
 priceless lace. It was as if the Marquesa had stepped 
 from her frame, to stand in the sunset radiance, more 
 young, more fresh, more fair than when Velasquez 
 painted her three centuries gone by. 
 
 " It is a miracle ! " Ingraham exclaimed at last, 
 looking from the picture to the living girl. " The 
 likeness is beyond anything that I imagined. Seiior- 
 ita, you are transformed! " 
 
 It was no exaggerated phrase. The nun-like 
 maiden who had glided along the corridors of Las 
 Cruces an hour before, in her clinging gown and 
 shrouding rebozo, seemed to have absolutely noth- 
 ing in common with this brilliant vision. And it 
 was a transformation which did not rest altogether 
 nor chiefly on the mere accident of dress. Deeper 
 than that it lay, in manner and bearing so changed 
 that Ingraham felt as if some process of magic had 
 taken place before his eyes. For what had touched 
 the chords that roused this wonderful resemblance? 
 
66 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 Was there some spell in the anpient robe the girl 
 had assumed, some potent influence left by her who 
 had once worn it? Or, in the mould of flesh so won- 
 derfully handed down, and fashioned in a likeness 
 stronger than is often seen in mother and child, did 
 there lie hid the resemblance that now displayed 
 itself in every turn of gesture? How else should 
 one who in her short existence had known only pov- 
 erty, obscurity, and the dependence which is not 
 likely to produce the manner of a great lady, wear 
 court attire as if born to it, bear herself with all the 
 pride of long descent, and in her splendid beauty 
 seem ready to challenge the notice of a king? 
 
 These things astonished Ingraham more than 
 the personal resemblance which at first appeared 
 to him so great; and as he gazed, even admiration 
 was for a moment lost in the sense of astonishment. 
 " It is simply marvellous," he repeated, " your re- 
 semblance to this portrait! I could not have con- 
 ceived anything so amazing! Is it possible that you 
 are not yourself aware of it? " 
 
 Thus challenged. Carmen lifted her eyes to the 
 picture, and he fancied that there was something 
 of reluctance in the glance. But if so, the expres- 
 sion vanished after a moment. The eyes of the por- 
 trait seemed to meet and hold hers in the resistless 
 and, as it were, living spell that he had himself 
 felt; and as she gazed, he could not but observe 
 that the resemblance between herself and the paint- 
 ing grew more marked through the subtle medium 
 of expression. Unconsciously, and almost as if act- 
 ing under the influence of magnetism, she lifted her 
 head with the very air of the proud beauty, the same 
 smile slowly curved her delicate red lips, and the 
 same light wakened in her eyes. After a moment, 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 6/ 
 
 she turned and looked at Ingraham; and it was no 
 imagination on his part that he felt something of the 
 same thrill that had passed over him when he first 
 met the eyes of the Marquesa. 
 
 " Why did you thank God that she was dead, 
 seiior? " Carmen asked, speaking for the first time; 
 and her voice seemed to him as changed as her 
 manner. Its full, sweet cadence was now as im- 
 perious as the light in her eyes. 
 
 " Because there seemed to me infinite possibili- 
 ties of harm in her beauty," Ingraham answered. 
 " But I was premature in thanking God that she 
 was dead. She lives again in you, senorita; and, 
 if you will, all her power may be yours." 
 
 " Why not?" she asked, as if speaking to her- 
 self. "Power is sweet, is it not? I do not know, 
 for what power have I ever had? Not even so much 
 as to order one of the tasks of my life. But now I 
 feel as if it might be sweet, and as if " — she spoke 
 slowly — " it were mine." 
 
 " It is yours," said Ingraham. Despite himself, 
 he uttered the words with a solemnity which at an- 
 other moment would have made him smile. But 
 he had a strange sensation, as if the sudden develop- 
 ment of a character, like the bursting open of a night- 
 blooming cereus, were at this moment taking place 
 before his eyes. More than once in the heart of the 
 tropical night he had seen that lovely miracle of 
 nature, the sheathing leaves of the long, green, 
 close-shut bud folding back within an hour to reveal 
 the unearthly beauty of its dazzling flower; and he 
 felt as if the same miracle were repeated now. 
 
 " The power that is the birthright of beauty is 
 indeed yours, sefiorita, in full measure," he went on, 
 after a short pause. " But, if I may be permitted 
 
68 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 to ask, I should like to know what has wrought so 
 sudden and so great a change in your sentiments? 
 You could have had no such thoughts as these 
 when a short time ago you were reluctant to allow 
 me to show, by painting your portrait, how great 
 is your resemblance to this picture." 
 
 " No," she answered, " I had no such thouglits. 
 But something stirred in me — I know not how to 
 say it — a dread, a foreboding of anything that might 
 connect me with this picture. From my earliest 
 childhood it has had an influence over me which I 
 can not comprehend or explain. In looking at it 
 I have always had strange feelings, as if something 
 were folded here " — she laid her hand on her breast 
 — " which would one day make itself felt, as if there 
 were thoughts and desires in me not born of my own 
 life, which the mere sight of it wakened. And there 
 •was also something in me which shrank from and 
 feared this waking. I speak to you obscurely, sehor, 
 because I do not myself understand that' of which 
 I speak. I am only sure — I can not tell you how 
 or why — that this picture has always had power to 
 rouse in me longings for things so far from my life 
 that I know not how I ever dreamed of them. And 
 so it was that I felt averse to your request." 
 
 " You interest me extremely," said Ingraham — 
 which was indeed true ; since to find such a psycho- 
 logical problem as this was even more remarkable 
 than to find the genuine Velasquez which hung be- 
 fore him. " But now? " he asked, eagerly. " Are 
 you averse to my request now? " 
 
 She looked at him with something which was 
 almost scorn in her brilliant glance. 
 
 " Why should I be averse to it now? " she asked, 
 in turn. " All that I shrank from and dreaded, with- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 69 
 
 out knowing why I dreaded it, has come to pass. 
 I seem to have put on another being with this dress, 
 which belongs to me as if I had worn it in another 
 existence. I have looked at myself in a mirror, and 
 I know that I am as like her " — she glanced at the 
 portrait this time proudly and without reluctance 
 — " as if I were her daughter; and, like her daugh- 
 ter, I have inherited all her passions and desires. 
 But I am no longer afraid of them. I feel now that 
 it is well to be beautiful and to have such power as 
 she possessed. No, sefiof, I am no longer averse 
 to your request. You may paint my portrait." 
 
 A princess could not have given the permission 
 more royally, but for a moment Ingraham was too 
 confounded to reply. What had he done? This 
 ^was what he asked himself, forgetting that he had 
 done little beyond what a child does who exposes 
 a hidden spark of fire to a fanning breeze. The 
 novice-like girl who first came into his sight had 
 within her, already dimly perceived by herself, all 
 the dormant characteristics which her physical ap- 
 pearance indicated. For Nature's signs never fail, 
 though we may often fail in reading them aright. 
 Of the exact nature of that close and intimate bond 
 between the spirit and the matter which clothes it, 
 no one has ever been able to speak with full knowl- 
 edge; but we know with the certainty of experience 
 that by the outer we may tell unerringly the char- 
 acter of- the inner man, by the shape of the head read 
 the capacity of the brain lodged within, by the out- 
 line of the features recognise the disposition, by the 
 very quality of the skin find an index to the tem- 
 perament. And in all tliis the mystery of inheritance 
 plays its full part. With family looks, family char- 
 acteristics are handed down from one generation 
 
70 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 to another; and whenever we find a striking phys- 
 ical resemblance we find a moral resemblance equally 
 great. • By what strange working out of hidden law, 
 or trick of chance, this girl had been clothed with 
 a garment of flesh exactly reproducing that of her 
 remote ancestress it is impossible to say; but given 
 the reproduction of the type, there followed as an 
 inevitable result the reproduction of those traits 
 and tendencies of character of which the flesh is but 
 the material expression and index. 
 
 Thoughts like these passed rapidly through In- 
 graham's mind as he stood silent for a moment after 
 Carmen had last spoken; and before he collected 
 himself sufficiently to answer her, Doiia Antonia, 
 accompanied by Don Luis and Don Gilberto, whom 
 she had paused to summon, entered the sala. 
 
 " Ah, seiior, it is more wonderful than you imag- 
 ined, is it not so?" she said, as she advanced. " I 
 thought that you were dreaming when you talked 
 of Carmen being like the Marquesa; but when I 
 put the dress upon her — Madre de Dios, it was like 
 magic ! Carmen seemed to vanish, and it was as if 
 the Marquesa stepped from her frame and looked 
 at me. Have you ever seen anything like it? " she 
 asked, addressing the two men who followed her, 
 and indicating the girl by a gesture. 
 
 It did not surprise Ingraham that they both 
 looked at her for a moment as if stupefled. Evi- 
 dently their former recognition of the likeness had 
 not prepared them for such a startling vision as 
 this. And Carmen, instead of shrinking and blush- 
 ing under their steadfast gaze, as on the corridor 
 only a short time before, met it now with the com- 
 posure of one to whom the consciousness of beauty 
 made admiration the most natural of consequences. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 71 
 
 " Caramba! " said Don Gilberto at last, rolling 
 out the word in a manner to express the extreme 
 of astonishment. " I can hardly believe that this 
 is my Carmencita! It is a great lady; it is the Mar- 
 quesa herself! Had you any idea that the hkeness 
 was so astonishing?" he asked, turning to Don 
 Luis. 
 
 Ingraham's attention thus directed to the latter, 
 he was struck by the expression with which he was 
 regarding the young g^rl. His deep dark eyes were 
 fastened upon her with a look in which^amazement 
 and admiration were mingled, so that for an instant 
 he did not seem even to hear Don Gilberto's ques- 
 tion. Then he started slightly and answered — 
 
 " No: it is wonderful; it is a revelation! I ask 
 myself if we have all been without eyes, that it was 
 necessary for a stranger to come and show us this 
 extraordinary thing. I have never seen or known 
 anything like it. Carmen has disappeared. It is, 
 as you have said, a great lady who stands there 
 now." 
 
 " Then the great lady will disappear and Carmen 
 shall return," said the g^rl. She made them a deep 
 courtesy — ^such a courtesy as might have become a 
 court — ^and, turning, walked with perfect grace and 
 self-possession down the long sola to the door. They 
 all watched her breathlessly, the same surprise, the 
 same thought, in the mind of each: how had she 
 learned such a manner and bearing? What mar- 
 vellous instinct had in her case supplied the place 
 of training? 
 
 The sunset radiance seemed to fade out of the 
 room as she left it, and they looked at each other 
 a little blankly, as people puzzled by something be; 
 yond their powers of comprehending. 
 
72 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 " Caramba! " said Don Gilberto again. " After 
 this I shall believe in magic." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ingraham, too, believed in magic in the days 
 which followed this remarkable day of his arrival. 
 When he caught a glimpse of Carmen again — which 
 was not until the late evening meal — he already 
 began to ask himself if the scene in the sala had not 
 been a dream, if the picture of the Marquesa had 
 not so bewitched him that his own imagination had 
 played him the trick of fancying that the girl had 
 looked at him with the very eyes and smile of the 
 long dead woman and spoken to him with her voice? 
 Had he not dreamed that singular confession she 
 had made of the power the picture exercised over 
 her? He could not but ask himself these questions 
 as he saw the quiet, unobtrusive maiden in her sim- 
 ple dress, plain and poor as that of a servant, glid^ 
 with retiring manner and bent head into the dining- 
 room, where, scarcely lifting her eyes, she seated 
 herself at the end of the table occupied by the chil- 
 dren and proceeded to supply their somewhat clam- 
 ourous wants. No one noticed her; she was plainly 
 filling her ordinary place and duties ; but Ingraham 
 caught once or twice a puzzled look in the eyes of 
 Don Luis, as, like his own, they sought that bent 
 head, with the golden hair smoothed in simplest 
 fashion and hanging in its accustomed shining 
 braids down her back. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 73 
 
 After supper she disappeared completely, and 
 the three men who sat together on the corridor 
 smoking and talking until bedtime did not again 
 allude to the Velasquez, or to the singular resem- 
 blance which had been revealed. It was only when 
 Ingraham retired to his own apartment that Don 
 Gilberto, following him there, again spoke of the 
 picture. 
 
 " It is the unexpected which happens," he ob- 
 served, as he placed himself on a wooden-seated 
 chair, severely primitive as most of the other furni- 
 ture was, and watched the young man open his port- 
 manteau. " I had little idea when we started for 
 Las Cruces that I should leave you here engaged 
 in painting Carmen's portrait, with no certainty at 
 all of obtaining the Velasquez." 
 
 " Has Don Luis refused to part with it? " asked 
 Ingraham, sitting down, in turn, on his hard narrow 
 bed and regarding the other by the light of the sin- 
 gle candle which faintly strove to illuminate the 
 large apartment. 
 
 " He refused, yes, but not in such a manner as 
 to exclude hope," the other answered; "else I 
 should make short work of Carmen's portrait, which 
 is but an excuse for your remaining. If Nature by 
 some freak has chosen to make the g^rl a living 
 counterpart of the Marquesa, who was certainly 
 no model of virtue in her day, the fact is not of such 
 happy augury that it should be emphasized in the 
 manner you propose, except that thereby you are 
 enabled to stay here and by slow degrees, perhaps, 
 work upon Don Luis." 
 
 " You had better give me some idea of what ar- 
 guments will be likely to have an effect upon him," 
 said Ingraham. " After all, it is a deucedly imperti- 
 
74 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 nent thing to ask a man — a gentleman of long de- 
 scent — to part with what is not only an invaluable 
 work of art, but to himself and his family the equiva- 
 lent of a patent of nobility." 
 
 " There is only one argument that I know of to 
 move him or any other man, and that is self-inter- 
 est," replied the other, with cynical coolness. " As 
 I have told, you, he is ambitious ; and to further his 
 ambition he needs money. Offer him enough, and 
 in my opinion the Velasquez will be yours." 
 
 "Was not ten thousand dollars enough?" 
 
 " It will be well to increase the offer. There is 
 no risk if you are absolutely sure that the picture is 
 a genuine Velasquez." 
 
 Ingraham did not think that further assurance 
 was required on this score; he simply nodded and 
 said, " I am willing to go as high as fifteen thousand 
 if necessary. But let us first be sure that it is neces- 
 sary. For myself," he added, " I find the prospect 
 of staying here and painting Doiia Carmen's portrait 
 so interesting that I am sincerely obliged to Don 
 Luis for not accepting our offer at once." 
 
 Don Gilberto gave the easy speaker a quick 
 glance, as if he would fain read him more thorough- 
 ly than he had yet been able to do. But a dim candle 
 is a very bafHing light by which to read anything, 
 so after a moment he spoke, not without some hesi- 
 tation : 
 
 " That is another point on which we must have 
 a few words before we part, Mr. Ingraham, and these 
 words I hope you will not misunderstand. You 
 do not, I am sure, need for me to remind you how 
 entirely our meeting was a matter of chance, and 
 how little we know of each other. Stop ! " — as In- 
 graham was about to speak. " Let me finish by 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 75 
 
 saying that I have not forgotten days when I as- 
 sociated with gentlemen in my own country, and 
 when I meet a countryman I never have the least 
 difficulty in determining whether or not he is a gen- 
 tleman. If I did not fully recognise this fact with re- 
 gard to yourself, I should not be leaving you at Las 
 Cruces now. But a man may be a gentleman and 
 yet forget some things — ^for instance, how easily a 
 girl who has seen nothing of the world can be im- 
 pressed. You have been instrumental in revealing 
 to us to-day that Carmen is no longer a child, but 
 a singularly beautiful woman. This beauty may 
 lead you to forget that in her thoughts and experi- 
 ence she is still but a child, and that the language 
 of compliment and flattery is absolutely unknown 
 to her. She has never even heard of that amuse- 
 ment called flirtation, which I presume still flour- 
 ishes in our country." 
 
 " It is an amusement so hopelessly vulgar that 
 I know little more of it than that it exists," said In- 
 graham, coldly. But the amiability of his temper 
 asserted itself the next moment, as he felt the reason- 
 ableness of the other's words. " I understand you 
 perfectly," he went on, looking frankly at Don Gil- 
 berto, " and, since you know so little of me, hold 
 you entirely justified in your warning. But if you 
 knew me better, you would know that there is no 
 need for it. Even if your daughter's beauty did not 
 affect me solely as the subject of a picture, I think 
 I may safely say that I am incapable of either flat- 
 tering or flirting with her. I should be glad if you 
 would set your mind at rest by believing this." 
 
 " I do believe it," said the other, heartily. " I 
 only spoke to guard against a possible danger. 
 Now "—-rising — " I shall bid you good-by and wish 
 
76 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 you good luck. I start at daybreak. Your canvas 
 will be here as soon as possible, and I depend upon 
 you to let me know how you progress in your ne- 
 gotiations with Don Luis." 
 
 Ingraham promised to do so; but it may be 
 safely asserted that possible negotiations with Don 
 Luis were very little in his mind when he waked 
 the next morning to find a flood of brilliant sunshine 
 streaming into his room through an unbarred win- 
 dow. His first vague sensation, before conscious- 
 ness fully returned after the deep, dreamless slum- 
 ber which followed physical fatigue, was of some- 
 thing pleasant awaiting him, even as the first con- 
 fused waking sense — more familiar to most of 
 us — after pain or grief is of something disagree- 
 able to be endured. It required only a min- 
 ute for him to remember what the pleasure was 
 which smiled upon him with the smile of the 
 opening day. A new subject for a picture, and such 
 a subject! He almost laughed with exultation as he 
 
 sprang out of bed. What would not and 
 
 and (he ran rapidly over in his mind the names 
 
 of half a dozen aspiring and already famous paint- 
 ers) give for such a chance as this which had come 
 to him? Would they not call him half enviously, 
 as often before, the Prince of Good Luck? He ac- 
 knowledged to himself that it was luck almost too 
 extraordinary to be true. "Taken all in all, the 
 episode promises to be one of the most interesting 
 I have ever known," he reflected, " and I can not 
 sufificiently congratulate myself on my rare good 
 fortune in meeting Don Gilberto." 
 
 He was still in this elated frame of mind when, 
 breakfast over — at least the cup of coffee (or choco- 
 late) and bread which in Mexico, as in most south- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 n 
 
 ern countries, does duty for breakfast — ^he suggested 
 to Dona Antonia, who was the only member of the 
 household he met, that, with her permission, he 
 should like a sitting from Carmen as soon as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 It was not his fancy that Doiia Antonia did not 
 look very much pleased. " Will not the afternoon 
 answer as well, seiior? " she asked. " In the morn- 
 ing Carmen has many duties to perform. It will 
 probably not occupy very much time, that which 
 you desire, but it will be a distraction, and if she must 
 put on the dress of the Marquesa " 
 
 " That is absolutely necessary," said Ingraham, 
 hastily but decidedly, for he felt sure that without 
 the influence, occult or imaginary, of the court robe 
 of the dead beauty. Carmen would not be in the 
 least the subject he desired to paint. 
 
 " In that case," replied Doiia Antonia, with equal 
 decision, " it is necessary to wait until the after- 
 noon." 
 
 The radiance of Ingraham's mood suffered 
 something of an eclipse after this. If he was to be 
 forced to waste the best light and best hours of 
 every day in such fashion, the difficulties of paint- 
 ing the picture would be immense, and the delay 
 most irksome to his patience and to that creative 
 impulse now at high tide, but which in every artist 
 is as certain to ebb as the waves of the sea, leaving 
 the dreary period of reflux, when labour is no longer 
 delight, but drudgery. Such a period Ingraham 
 dreaded in himself. " I must paint the picture while 
 I feel like doing so, if I am to make a success of it," 
 he thought, as he wandered discontentedly into the 
 great sala, and stood once more, lost in admiration, 
 before the portrait of the Marquesa. Such an op- 
 6 
 
78 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 portunity had never, he was sure, come to any 
 painter as now came to him, arid was he to lose it 
 through the obstinacy of a wretched old woman, 
 with no appreciation of art, whose consent at this 
 moment he would have Hked to shake out of her 
 by the application of physical force? It was while 
 he meditated somewhat ruefully upon these things, 
 that the thought of Don Luis occurred to him. Per- 
 haps by his intervention he might hope to have this 
 vexatious restriction against morning sittings re- 
 moved, since it had been by the exercise of his 
 influence alone that he had secured the privilege 
 of any sittings at all. But where was Don Luis? 
 His impatience could ill brook delay, and sign of 
 the master of the house there was none. " He must 
 be an uncommonly late riser," thought the young' 
 man, who knew little of the habits of Mexican hacien- 
 dados. But he was soon enlightened in this particu- 
 lar. Meeting a servant on the spacious, empty cor- 
 ridors surrounding the inner court, his inquiry was 
 answered by the information that " el amo " had, 
 according to his custom, ridden out in the early 
 morning, and had not yet returned. Would he re- 
 turn soon? It was likely, since he had gone out even 
 earlier than usual, at the time of Don Gilberto's de- 
 parture. Thus encouraged, Ingraham went down 
 into the court and out to the entrance, where, loung- 
 ing and smoking on one of the stone benches placed 
 on each side of the deep arch, he watched with in- 
 terest the busy scenes enacting on the open space 
 before the house. The office of the administrador, 
 which was one of tfie lower apartments, opened by 
 an outward door immediately upon this space, and 
 before it. a succession of carts were arriving and de- 
 parting — ^the great, unwieldy carts of Mexico, with 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. jrg 
 
 their high wooden wheels, into the composition of 
 which no particle of iron enters, and their long 
 teams of loosely-harnessed mules. Ingraham fetched 
 his sketch-book and found some interest in mak- 
 ing several graphic sketches of the picturesque 
 groups formed by these carts, mules, and attendant 
 men; but the sense of suppressed irritation, of long- 
 ing to be doing something else, and of wasted time 
 and energy, never left him, so that it was with an 
 exclamation of unfeigned pleasure that, as the clat- 
 ter of a horse's hoofs striking on the pavement under 
 the arch caused him to look up, he saw Don Luis 
 smiling from the saddle down upon him. 
 
 " Ah, Sefior Ingraham, you find something 
 in the carretas to make a picture ! " he said. " They 
 are very strange, our carretas, to your eyes, is it 
 not so?" 
 
 " Very picturesque — carretas, mules, and men," 
 replied Ingraham, comprehensively, thinking again, 
 as he spoke, what a subject for a painter his host 
 made, in his riding-dress of embroidered buckskin, 
 high boots, and long gloves, the broad sombrero 
 shading his face, with its finely-cut features and 
 clear, dark tints, while the richly-adorned saddle, 
 from the high pommel of which the coiled reata, 
 or lasso, hung, and heavy stirrups of stamped 
 leather, set off the beauty of the horse, in which, as 
 in most Mexican horses, the strain of Arabian blood 
 was strikingly evident. Horse and rider, framed 
 by the great arch, made a picture that at another 
 time Ingraham would have eagerly begged permis- 
 sion to transfer to his sketch-book or his canvas. 
 But just now he was too impatient of delay to be 
 drawn into prolonging it even by a subject so tempt- 
 ing. 
 
8o THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 " But I am a little surprised," Don Luis went 
 on, as he dismounted and gave his horse to a mozo 
 who came forward, " that you find the carretas more 
 interesting than the picture you were so anxious 
 on yesterday to paint. Or — I forget — it is the can- 
 vas from Morelia for which, no doubt, you wait? " 
 
 " No, seiior," Ingraham replied, glad of so 
 speedy an opening for his grievance; " I am not 
 waiting for the canvas from Morelia. I had fully 
 intended to make a preliminary study of the head 
 of Dona Carmen this morning; but the seiiora your 
 mother told me, to my great disappointment, that 
 it was impossible to spare her from her occupations, 
 for the purpose." 
 
 Don Luis frowned slightly. Dutiful and affec- 
 tionate son as, like most of his countrymen, he was, 
 that frown said distinctly that he was also master 
 in his own house, and that he did not like his moth- 
 er's interference with his distinctly expressed wishes. 
 " I was not aware," he remarked, " that Carmen 
 had occupations so important that they need inter- 
 fere with the fulfilment of my promise to you. There 
 is some misunderstanding. Come with me, and I 
 will arrange the matter so that you shall not again 
 be interfered with." 
 
 " I am afraid that I shall win, out of all this, the 
 hearty dislike of Doiia Antonia," thought Ingraham, 
 as he closed his sketch-book with alacrity and fol- 
 lowed the stately figure that, with ringing spurs, 
 strode before him to the great stone staircase. 
 
 All the wide galleries surrounding the quadran- 
 gle above were empty and silent, save for the glid- 
 ing form of a servant or two in the distance, when 
 they emerged upon them. Don Luis gave a quick 
 glance around, and then walked with decision down 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. gi 
 
 the echoing lengths of two sides of the court and 
 up to a closed door at which he knocked with the 
 head of his riding-whip. A voice, barely audible 
 through the thick wood, gave permission to enter, 
 and on the opening of the door a scene for which 
 Ingraham was not prepared was revealed. 
 
 In the midst of a large, lofty room, scantily 
 furnished with the simplicity which characterized 
 most of the other apartments of the house. Carmen 
 sat, occupied in sewing, an overflowing work-basket 
 beside her, while the presence of the children with 
 books and slates, and the fact that the oldest girl 
 was reading aloud in a high, sing-song voice, suffi- 
 ciently indicated that she combined the duties of 
 seamstress and teacher. As the door opened, she 
 lifted her head from the work over which it was bent, 
 and the expression of extreme amazement visible 
 on her face as her eyes fell upon the figure of Don 
 Luis standing upon the threshold was sufficient 
 proof that such an apparition had never stood there 
 before. 
 
 " It is papa! " cried the children, in tones of min- 
 gled astonishment and delight, as, throwing down 
 their books, they ran toward him. 
 
 But he Kfted his hand with a deterring gesture. 
 " Be quiet, my children," he said. " I have come to 
 speak not to you, but to Carmencita. Why is it," 
 he asked, addressing the girl, " that you are engaged 
 in this manner, after having promised our friend 
 the Seiior Ingraham that he should have the pleas- 
 ure of painting you? " 
 
 As if for the first time aware of the presence of 
 the person thus spoken of. Carmen turned her eyes 
 toward him as she answered, " I have not seen or 
 heard any thing of the seiior this morning. I sup- 
 
82 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 posed that when he wished for me I should be in- 
 formed, jyieanwhile, there was no reason why I 
 should neglect my daily duties." 
 
 " It seems to me," said Don Luis, again frown- 
 ing slightly, "that your duties are excessive. It 
 is enough that you should undertake to teach these 
 children a little, without burdening yourself further 
 with such work as that." And he pointed to the pile 
 of garments beside her. 
 
 " It is what I have always done," said the girl, 
 quietly. "Why should I find it more excessive 
 to-day than yesterday? But if I am wanted by the 
 Senor Ingraham, I must first speak to Dofia An- 
 tonia, for she will expect this work to be finished." 
 
 " / will speak to her," said Don Luis, in a tone 
 of brief decision; and, turning, he walked away, 
 leaving Ingraham standing, at a loss whether to 
 go or to stay, on the threshold of the invaded work- 
 room and school-room in one. 
 
 But it was impossible to resist the temptation to 
 linger long enough to let his eyes rest with pleasure 
 on the details of Carmen's beauty as she sat with 
 the strong light of the radiant sky pouring through 
 a wide-open window full upon her, bringing out all 
 the pearly fairness and exquisite delicacy of her 
 skin, and the dazzhng gold of her hair. Besides 
 these details, there was little at this moment to at- 
 tract attention toward her. Seated on a chair as 
 lowly as her apparent lot in life, with head bent over 
 her homely task, a stranger seeing her for the first 
 time might have said, " What a pretty sewing-girl ! " 
 but would assuredly have beheld nothing to sug- 
 gest resemblance to the splendid court beauty smil- 
 ing from the canvas of Velasquez. Even to In- 
 graham's keen glance the likeness seemed for the 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 83 
 
 moment to have escaped like a volatile essence. 
 Where had it vanished? He was asking himself 
 the question with a puzzled sense of something al- 
 together strange and elusive, when Carmen sud- 
 denly lifted her eyes from the seam on which they 
 had fallen, and met his gaze. As she did so she 
 smiled. 
 
 " You are wondering what has become of the 
 Marquesa, are you not, seiior? " she asked, with 
 something slightly mocking in her tone. "Mire! 
 She has gone — she is lying quietly in her grave — 
 and you have here only Carmen, who passes her 
 days in sewing children's frocks and hearing their 
 lessons." 
 
 " And has Carmen, while she sews the frocks 
 and hears the lessons, no recollections of the Mar- 
 quesa, no longings for a different life? " asked In- 
 graham, more and more interested in the singular 
 personality of the girl. 
 
 She shook her head slowly. " When Carmen is 
 wise, seiior, she tliinks of nothing besides the frocks 
 and lessons," she answered. " And indeed," lapsing 
 suddenly into the first person, " what else do I know? 
 All else are but dreams. This," resuming her needle, 
 " is the existence to which I was bom." 
 
 " When the Marquesa comes to life in you again, 
 you will think differently, seiiorita." 
 
 She looked up at him, this time with a strange 
 gravity on her face. " I am more than ever sure, 
 seiior, that it is not well the Marquesa should come 
 to life again," she said. " And for that reason is it 
 asking too much of you to beg you to abandon the 
 idea of painting my portrait? I should be very 
 grateful if you would do so." 
 
 "Senorita! it is impossible that I hear you 
 
84 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 aright," Ingraham cried, confounded by this request. 
 " You have promised, and I must hold you to the 
 fulfilment of your promise. How can I forego such 
 a great pleasure and privilege? You do not know 
 what you ask. It would be inexcusable to fail to 
 perpetuate anything so wonderful as your resem- 
 blance to that picture! And is it possible that you 
 have forgotten all that you said to nie yesterday? " 
 
 " It would be well if I forgot it and you also, 
 seiior," she answered, with grave earnestness. " I 
 talked like a fool. I almost think that I was under 
 the influence of some spell ; for why else should the 
 mere putting on of that old dress have had such an 
 effect upon me? I have been ashamed to remem- 
 ber the folly of my words ever since. It was true, 
 as I told you, that I had known before some vague 
 feelings of the kind, which made me shrink from 
 any association with the picture; but I was like 
 a creature transformed, I was not myself, while I 
 talked to you in the sala." 
 
 " It was a most interesting transformation," said 
 Ingraham, " and one which I would not have missed 
 for anything. I wish I could make you understand 
 half how interesting it was, and you would see the 
 — the cruelty of your request. Of course I can not 
 insist on painting you against your will. But why, 
 in the name of all that is reasonable, should you 
 object to the development of your nature along its 
 natural lines, if the painting assists in that develop- 
 ment? I don't myself comprehend why it should 
 do so; but the whole thing is so strange that, grant- 
 ing it does, why should you object? " 
 
 " Why should I object to having developed in 
 me the nature, the longings, the tastes, of the Mar- 
 quesa?" she asked, regarding him with almost 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 85 
 
 Startling energy. She turned with an unconsciously 
 dramatic gesture and indicated her surroundings, 
 the bare, work-strewn chamber, the children stand- 
 ing around in silent wonder, with well-thumbed 
 books in hand. " Look at the setting of my life, 
 seiior, and answer that question yourself." 
 
 " But this need not always be the setting of your 
 life," returned Ingraham, earnestly. " You are — 
 pardon my frankness — far too beautiful to spend 
 your days in such drudgery as this. It is an impos- 
 sibility." 
 
 " On the contrary, when one is poor, very poor, 
 it is a certainty," she replied, in a tone of deliberate 
 conviction which surprised him. "As for my 
 beauty, not one of those who have known me a.11 
 my life had ever seen it until they looked at me with 
 your eyes. When they have no longer your eyes 
 through which to look, they will forget it again, 
 and I shall be only Carmencita, too little and obscure 
 for notice. Let it be so, seiior. It is best. Do not 
 paint the picture, I implore you! " 
 
 What could Ingraham reply? To insist upon 
 painting the portrait of one who thus earnestly, and 
 almost with passion, implored him not to do so, 
 seemed a positively brutal thing. And yet to resign 
 this unparalleled opportunity^ to miss the exquisite 
 pleasure of such an artistic experiment, and to leave 
 untouched a subject that would have tempted and 
 delighted Velasquez himself, was more than he 
 could bring himself to do. He stood silent, con- 
 scious of the dark eyes fastened upon him in an en- 
 treaty compelling as a command, unable to refuse 
 their request, yet overwhelmed by the mere idea 
 of the renunciation demanded of him. 
 
 It was in the midst of the pause while he so stood 
 
86 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 and Carmen so waited, each absorbed in the decision 
 which hung trembHng in the balance, that Don Luis 
 suddenly broke in upon their preoccupation by ap- 
 pearing again beside Ingraham. 
 
 " The matter is arranged, senor," he said. " Car- 
 mencita, my mother awaits you in her chamber. 
 When you have changed your dress, she will ac- 
 company you to the room which Seiior Ingraham 
 has selected for his studio." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Then, with Car- 
 men's compelling gaze upon him, Ingraham forced 
 himself to speak. " You are very kind, senor," he 
 said, addressing Don Luis, " but I find — I think — 
 that is," gathering himself together with an effort, 
 " I believe that the sittings necessary for such a 
 picture will prove very fatiguing to the seiiorita, as 
 well as a great interruption to her occupations, and 
 therefore I feel bound not to press a matter which 
 will prove disagreeable to her. With your permis- 
 sion, therefore, I shall abandon the intention of 
 painting her portrait." 
 
 " This is a very sudden resolution, seiior," said 
 Don Luis, regarding the speaker with excusable 
 surprise. " Half an hour ago you were as eager 
 to begin the painting as I am to see the result of your 
 attempt. And for myself I can not consent to be 
 disappointed without some better reason than a 
 fear, which I am' sure is unfounded, of fatiguing 
 Carmen by the sittings. Can you not reassure the 
 seiior on this point? " he asked, turning to the girl. 
 
 She coloured deeply at the appeal. " There is 
 no fear that the sittings will fatigue me," she replied, 
 in a low voice, " but Sefior Ingraham has kindly 
 recognised that I — I have a reluctance to the paint- 
 ing " 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 87 
 
 " But this is folly," interrupted Don Luis, as 
 shortly and peremptorily as he would have spoken 
 to one of the children. " Your father has promised 
 for you, this gentleman has remained here for the 
 sole purpose of painting this picture, and I can not 
 allow you to disappoint him for a childish caprice. 
 Go, go! Let us hear no more of this reluctance. 
 It is not gracious to the seiior, who is paying you a 
 high compliment." 
 
 " I had no intention of being ungracious to the 
 seiior," said Carmen, as submissively as she had 
 spoken the day before to her father. There was no 
 sign left of the passionate energy with which she 
 had addressed Ingraham, as with down-dropped 
 eyes and the obedience of a child she folded away 
 her work and rose. " If the seiior will excuse my 
 folly," she added, as she approached the two men 
 still standing in the door, " I will not trouble him 
 again with my objections, and I shall come to his 
 studio as soon as I have changed my dress." 
 
 IX. 
 
 Carmen kept her word. Ingraham heard no 
 more of her objections to the picture, and when, 
 at the first opportunity, he began to express in a 
 half-hearted manner his regret that she should be 
 forced to do what was disagreeable to her, she 
 stopped him with what to himself he called her Mar- 
 quesa air. 
 
 " Do not trouble yourself, seiior," she said. " It 
 was not you or I who decided the matter. It was 
 
88 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 fate. One is foolish to struggle against that. I am 
 sorry to have seemed so inconsistent — giving my 
 consent one day and vi^ithdrawing it the next. But 
 my objections are all over now. Do not imagine 
 that I have any further reluctance to your paiiating." 
 And of the sincerity, as well as the composure, 
 of her words, there could be no doubt. Day by day 
 it seemed to Ingraham that he could perceive more 
 clearly the growth and development in her of all 
 that her appearance indicated when she would come 
 to him in the shining splendour of the old court 
 dress, holding her head with the proud grace of the 
 dead beauty, the sense of power, born of conscious 
 loveliness, shining in her eyes and curving her lips. 
 Day by day her resemblance deepened to the picture 
 before which she stood, until, glancing from one to 
 the other, Ingraham sometimes drew his breath, 
 overcome by amazement, asking himself if concen- 
 tration of ideas had not bewitched his sight and 
 made him fancy such an identity not only of feature, 
 but of manner and expression, between the portrait 
 and the living girl. But that it was not an illusion 
 born of his own imagination, he was convinced by 
 the fact that its effect was as apparent on Don Luis 
 as on himself. He too looked with astonishment 
 at the transformation, and he too perceived, like 
 Ingraham, that as time went on the resemblance 
 to the Marquesa ceased to disappear when Carmen 
 changed her dress and became again the familiar 
 presence, haJf child, half humble dependant, of every 
 day. At first she laid aside the manner and bearing 
 of the great lady with her rich robes; but as she 
 became, as it were, more and more completely sat- 
 urated with the influence of the portrait, the very 
 being of which she seemed to assume for so many 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 89 
 
 hours of each day, she began to look, in her humble 
 attire, like one who is masquerading, rather than the 
 novice-like maiden who had glided unobtrusively 
 as a shadow about the corridors of Las Cruces when 
 Ingraham first saw her. Even Doha Antonia at 
 length observed the change. More than once her 
 eye rested with disapproval on the girl, as with her 
 golden head held high, in the very pose of the Mar- 
 quesa, she entered or left the dining-room. Finally 
 the comment came. 
 
 " I was afraid of the effect of this painting upon 
 Carmen," she remarked to her son one day, as they 
 sat on the corridor together, and the girl passed 
 with her strangely altered step and bearing across 
 their view. " I thought that the result of arraying 
 her in a manner so unfitting her station in life, and 
 having her portrait painted, as if she were a beauty 
 or a person of distinction, would ,be to develop a 
 dangerous vanity. I see that my fears were well 
 founded. The girl is totally spoiled. Her resem- 
 blance to the picture of the Marquesa has turned 
 her head. She has lost all her modesty of appear- 
 ance and manner, and walks about the house with 
 the air of a great lady. When I look at her I can 
 hardly believe that it is Carmen." 
 
 " Nor I," said Don Luis, as his gaze still rested 
 on the place where the graceful figure had disap- 
 peared. " It is an extraordinary case of what looks 
 almost like a transformed personality. The Car- 
 men whom we have known as a child seems to have 
 vanished. But I do not think with you that it is a 
 result of vanity. I believe that her change of man- 
 ner is as unconscious as her change of appearance 
 when she assumes the Marquesa's dress." 
 
 " Conscious or unconscious, it is the result of 
 
go 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 vanity, as I knew well that it would be," said Dona 
 Antonia. " Madre de Dios! do I hot know girls? 
 As long as they are kept secluded and in ignorance, 
 they are content and humble and all is well; but 
 once let men begin to look at them and pay them 
 foolish compliments, and all is over. Their heads 
 are turned, they peacock themselves if one but 
 glances at them, and there is nothing to do but to 
 marry them offhand, if one wishes to avoid trouble 
 and mischief. As soon as possible I shall return 
 Carmen to her mother with that recommendation. 
 And meanwhile I trust that this painter may not 
 completely spoil her by his flattery. Her father 
 and yourself have much to answer for. She was 
 a good child, gentle, obedient, retiring, until this 
 folly began." 
 
 " I do not think that Seiior Ingraham flatters 
 her," said Don Luis, quietly. " I have been present 
 during many of the sittings, and he says little to 
 her, or indeed to any one. He appears to be com- 
 pletely absorbed, and paints Hke a man possessed 
 by a frenzy. The picture is growing under his hand 
 marvellously like the work of VelasqUez." 
 
 " Why not, since he has the Velasquez before 
 him to copy?" asked Dofia Antonia, serenely un- 
 aware of any technical difficulties in transferring to 
 a modern canvas the matchless colouring of the 
 great Spanish realist. " I am glad that you have 
 sometimes been able to be present," she went on. 
 " It is a protection for Carmen. For me to sacri- 
 fice my time is impossible. I have too much to 
 occupy me to be able to spend hours in watching 
 the daughter o( Josefa Valdez. I placed old Mara- 
 quita in the room; it was all I could do. But she 
 does not understand English. For that matter, 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 91 
 
 s 
 
 neither do I; but they would not speak English 
 if I were present." 
 
 " They do not speak very much of either Eng- 
 lish or Spanish," said Don Luis. " I think that you 
 may tranquillize your mind on that point. Seiior 
 Ingraham is thinking more of his painting than of 
 Carmen." " And more of my Velasquez than of both 
 together," he was on the point of adding, but for- 
 bore in time; since he had no intention of speak- 
 ing to Dona Antonia of Ingraham's offer for the 
 picture until he had decided whether or not to ac- 
 cept it. 
 
 He was, however, mistaken in this opinion. In- 
 graham had, indeed, increased his offer, as he had 
 promised Don Gilberto he would do; but, having 
 done that, the question of making the Velasquez 
 his own might almost have been said to have passed 
 from his mind, so absorbed was he in the most fas- 
 cinating and ambitious work he had ever attempted. 
 Don Luis was right in saying that he painted like 
 one possessed by frenzy. It was indeed the frenzy 
 of the artist who sees within his reach the effect, 
 the perfection at which he aims, and who, with an 
 intense concentration, puts forth every effort to at- 
 tain it. To him, at this time, all things became a 
 dream except the attempt, in which all his faculties 
 were strung to highest tension, to place worthily 
 on his canvas the girl who day after day stood be- 
 fore him in all the glory of her beauty — ^the fairness 
 of her skin, the splendour of her hair, and the dark 
 lustre of her eyes challenging him to paint them, 
 as Velasquez had painted the Marquesa, for genera- 
 tions yet unborn to gaze upon with wondering ad- 
 miration. 
 
 But in the midst of this feverish exaltation the 
 
92 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES, 
 
 reflux came, when, flinging down palette and 
 brushes one day, he cried out, in a tone of despair, 
 " It is impossible ! I am a presumptuous fool ever 
 to have attempted it. What insanity to dream that 
 I could succeed! Velasquez must come back from 
 the dead to paint you, seiiorita, as he painted you 
 before." 
 
 Carmen did not answer for a moment. She was 
 accustdmed to his fanciful language on this point, 
 and it made little impression upon her. But she 
 quietly stepped forward and stood before the pic- 
 ture on his easel. As she regarded it, the colour 
 deepened on her cheek, a light kindled in her eyes, 
 and she lifted her head with the proud gesture now 
 become familiar to her. It was plain that the per- 
 ception of her own loveliness, painted in such glow- 
 ing tints, thrilled her with mingled pleasure and 
 pride. Presently she glanced at the portrait of the 
 Mafquesa, and then turned to Ingraham, who was 
 watching her curiously. 
 
 " Why is it that you are discouraged, sefior? " 
 she asked. " It seems to me that your work is as 
 beautiful as this. It is as if Velasquez had come 
 back from the dead, the two paintings are so much 
 alike." 
 
 " Then my picture is but a servile copy," said 
 Ingraham, who was in a mood in which encourage- 
 ment became difficult. " I did not intend it to be 
 that. I meant that it should have some original life 
 — even as you are yourself and not the Marquesa, 
 however wonderful your resemblance to her may 
 be." 
 
 Carmen again looked at the portrait of the Mar- 
 quesa, encountering the gaze of its almost living 
 eyes with her full glance. To Ingraham, still watch- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 93 
 
 ing her, it seemed that, in the triumphant conscious- 
 ness of her beauty, she felt at this moment upon a 
 plane of equality with the woman whose splendid 
 image had so long dominated her imagination. 
 
 " Yes, there is no doubt that I am myself — an- 
 other person altogether,", she said at length, slowly. 
 " Yet it is no fancy to believe that I think and feel 
 as she thought and felt, that I long for the things 
 which she possessed, and that I could do the things 
 she did." 
 
 Remembering the story of the Marquesa, In- 
 graham felt a slight shiver pass over him at the last 
 words, and as he gazed at the girl, with her strange 
 resemblance to the woman whose fascination seemed 
 to live in spite of time and death, deepening even 
 as she spoke, he felt now, as more than once' be- 
 fore, that if he had not been, as she declared, a mere 
 instrument of fate, the time might come when he 
 would hardly be able to forgive himself for the part 
 he had played in her awakening. 
 
 " No," he said, quickly, " you could not do the 
 things of which this woman was capable; and you 
 dream when you fancy it is so. Some mental and 
 spiritual likeness there must be where the physical 
 likeness is so strong, for Nature's signs are never 
 without meaning; but remember what different 
 strains of blood enter into your being from those 
 which entered into hers. Half of your ancestry is 
 Anglo-Saxon. That alone makes a difference 
 greater than you can readily understand." 
 
 Still gazing at the picture. Carmen shook her 
 head. " It does not matter about that," she said. 
 " I belong to her as much as if no other strain of 
 blood were in my veins. I have felt it all my life — 
 ever since, when first brought here a little child, I 
 7 
 
94 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 crept into the sala and stood spellbound before her. 
 That moment was like a second birth to me, for in 
 that moment I knew what beauty was, and even 
 my childish soul understood what power, triumph, 
 pleasure might be." She turned and looked at him, 
 her eyes dilating as he had not seen them since 
 that first day when she came to him in the sala and 
 told him of the influence of the portrait upon her. 
 " Do you beheve in possession, seiior? " she asked. 
 " Sometimes I have dreamed that from her long 
 and bitter exile spent within these walls the Mar- 
 quesa left something — I know not what — a power, 
 a spell behind her, which I have felt more than 
 others because I am moulded in her likeness. Do 
 you think it possible that such a thing might be? " 
 " Who knows? " replied Ingraham, vaguely, 
 although the suggestion appealed at once to his 
 own responsive; imagination. He was not likely 
 to forget the deep impression the Marquesa's story 
 made upon his fancy, even before he had seen her 
 picture, and how for him the fortress-like court, the 
 wide corridors, and the vast rooms had seemed per- 
 vaded by a presence whose beauty was full of the 
 mournfulness of a tragic fate. Had the proud spirit 
 of the woman suffering perhaps an unmerited pun- 
 ishment, in its long stress of agony, indeed left be- 
 hind, in this which had been her prison, an influ- 
 ence specially to be felt by one who was like a vessel 
 fitted by nature to receive it? He, too, looked up 
 at the portrait. " Living or dead," he thought, " all 
 things are possible to her." And then his eyes 
 turned again to the girl who was her image. " Such 
 a thing might be," he said, aloud. " We do not 
 know: mysteries surround us on every side, and 
 there is none deeper than that of our own nature. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 95 
 
 But why strive to probe into that which we can 
 never know? There is a natural reason for all that 
 you feel, in the fact that you are fashioned in this 
 woman's very likeness." 
 
 " And this likeness — what does it mean? " she 
 asked, with a note of passion vibrating in her voice 
 such as he had not heard from her before. " That 
 I am to spend my life as an unpaid servant, in menial 
 toil, with her proud spirit and her fiery heart within 
 me, unrecognised? If that must be the end — and I 
 have known always that there is no other possible 
 for me — do you wonder that I shrank from this " 
 — turning quickly, she pointed to his painting — 
 '-" from putting on her very being for a time, only 
 to fall back more hopelessly into my own? " 
 
 What a picture she made at this moment, as she 
 stood in the rich robe of shining brocade, one white 
 arm extended in a gesture full at once of energy 
 and grace, her head thrown back on the slender 
 column of her rounded throat, her eyes shining, with 
 a glow that made their splendour almost overpower- 
 ing, and the intense light from the wide, unshuttered 
 window smiting the red gold of her piled-up tresses ! 
 It was no wonder that Ingraham caught his breath, 
 or that the old woman quietly sewing at the farther 
 end of the room, over whose bent head their con- 
 versation passed unheeded, looked up in amaze- 
 ment, asking herself if her eyes were bewitched, 
 or if this were indeed Carmen. 
 
 There was an instant's pause, no more, yet that 
 instant was filled for Ingraham with a revelation 
 that had the force of a shock, sending the blood 
 leaping madly through his veins. Up to this time 
 the artist only had been alive in him: absorbed in 
 the most ambitious attempt of his life, he had looked 
 
g6 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 at the girl only as an "artist looks, intent upon wrest- 
 ing from Nature the secret of her rare tints and 
 tones. But now, in this moment of artistic depres- 
 sion, the strong hold of absorption relaxed, and, 
 like one rousing from a dream, he beheld her for the 
 first time with the eyes of a man, and felt her beauty 
 strike upon his senses with the potent touch of pas- 
 sion. And not her beauty alone. That cry of pain 
 wrung from her — that protest against the crush- 
 ing narrowness and bitterness of her fate — stirred 
 his nature to its depths. Under any circumstances 
 it would have moved him to profoundest pity, but 
 now it opened all the flood-gates of love, passing be- 
 yond passion into the higher realm of tenderness 
 which yearns to bless and protect. When she asked 
 if the end of her awakening was to sink back more- 
 hopelessly into a life of unpaid servitude, not his 
 heart alone but every faculty of his being seemed 
 to answer. No. At this moment every other con- 
 sciousness was merged in the overwhelming knowl- 
 edge that he loved her, and in the exquisite thought 
 that he had the power to make her life all that her 
 nature demanded it should be.' He moved toward 
 her, a light altogether new shining in his eyes. 
 
 " Carmen, have no fear! " he cried quickly, in 
 English. " That which you dread shall not be the 
 end. I, who have wakened this new life within you, 
 promise that you shall not fall back into the narrow- 
 ness and subjection you have known. Your future 
 shall be my care, your nature shall have its scope, 
 if. Carmen, if " 
 
 He paused abruptly, for a step suddenly rang 
 on the tiled floor behind him, and, turning, he saw 
 Don Luis entering the room. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 97 
 
 X. 
 
 Carmen's glance fell on the new-comer at the 
 same instant, and she was quick to read the mean- 
 ing of the involuntary pause which he made just 
 within the doorway, as his eye rested on the two 
 figures, with their unconsciously dramatic pose, 
 standing in the midst of the chamber. The passion- 
 ate words which had just been spoken seemed still 
 to vibrate on the air and make an atmosphere dif- 
 ferent from the usual quiet of the studio. She read 
 the perception of this in that sudden pause, and 
 without a moment's hesitation spoke. 
 
 " Enter, Don Luis," she said, with an accent of 
 gracious permission, such as the Marquesa might 
 have addressed to some gentleman of the court while 
 Velasquez was painting. her beauty in imperishable 
 tints upon his canvas. " Enter, and tell the sefior 
 that his work is not a failure, as he seems to think." 
 
 "How is it possible for him to think that?" 
 asked Don Luis, advancing into the room and halt- 
 ing before the picture. " Caramba!" he said, after 
 a moment, in a low, deep tone. " It is a marvel! 
 Where are your eyes," he added, turning to In- 
 graham, " that you can look at this and think it a 
 failure?" 
 
 It was indeed a strange moment that the painter 
 had chosen to throw down his brushes in discour- 
 agement; and the sudden despondency that had 
 overtaken him could only be comprehended by one 
 who knew something of the moods which now and 
 again overwhelm every worker in the realm of art, 
 making all that he has accomplished seem worth- 
 
p8 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 less in his own eyes. This, revulsion of feeling had 
 come upon Ingraham more violently for the state 
 of exaltation in which he had hitherto worked, and 
 it had come, as it is more than likely to do, at a mo- 
 ment when he had touched a culminating point 
 beyond which, for the time at least, he could not 
 advance. The picture was by no means finished 
 in detail, but the impression which it gave as a whole 
 was of a force, a brilliant and daring vigour of treat- 
 ment and depth of colouring, in which it was scarce- 
 ly surpassed by the noble work of Velasquez placed 
 beside it. And yet it was not, as Ingraham in his 
 bitterness had said, a servile copy. The manner of 
 the great Spanish painter was there, but only as a 
 disciple imitates the greater art of a master; and 
 the picture, which might readily have become a 
 mere copy of the portrait of the Marquesa, was in 
 reality full of original life. It was, after all. Carmen 
 and not the Marquesa who looked forth from the 
 canvas — Carmen, with all her marvellous likeness 
 to the dead beauty, with every line of her features 
 and tint of her colouring, but with a different spirit 
 informing the fair body. By some touch of inspira- 
 tion Ingraham brought out the fact thaf, similar 
 as every trick of bearing might be, it was a girl of 
 nun-like innocence who masqueraded in the robes 
 of a by-gone court, and whose lustrous eyes looked 
 forth with the fearlessness of a child, rather than 
 with the depth of meaning which lay in the glance 
 of the woman whose misdeeds, real or imputed, had 
 brought her to die in lonely exile. " By painting 
 her portrait I will show how great the likeness is," 
 he had said. And lo! by painting the portrait he 
 made manifest how great also was, of necessity, the 
 difference. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 99 
 
 " I am glad that you find the picture good, 
 senor," he said, in reply to the question of Don 
 Luis, " but for me it is a failure because I have not 
 succeeded in producing the effects for which I 
 strove. That is an old story in art, but it is ever new 
 in its effect upon the artist. One works with fever- 
 ish energy to embody some conception that seems 
 so clear, so possible to the imagination, and sud- 
 denly one wakes and finds that one has failed. It 
 may not appear as a failure to others; but no one 
 can tell what was in the artist's mind save the artist 
 himself." 
 
 " In this case, however," said Don Luis, " others 
 are better able to judge of your success than your- 
 self, since you have not been working on an ideal 
 conception, but on the portrait of a living person. 
 To me your success seems most wonderful. You 
 have produced not a copy of Velasquez, but an 
 original work full of a life that is startling; and while 
 you have shown Carmen's astonishing likeness to 
 the Marquesa, you have also individualized and 
 painted her as herself. I, who am no artist, never- 
 theless know that to do this was most difficult." 
 
 " Have I done it? " asked Ingraham, half in- 
 credulously. A dulness of per9eptic>n had fallen 
 upon him. The picture seemed to him at this mo- 
 ment a tame and lifeless thing. He turned from 
 it impatiently, to let his gaze rest again on the living 
 subject, on the loveliness so deep and glowing which 
 struck to his inmost being with a thrill like that 
 which the portrait of the Marquesa had wakened 
 in him when he first stood before it. Had he been 
 mad, not to know what that thrill portended, what 
 power it was which seized him even then in its 
 strong grasp? Trifler with fancies more or less 
 
100 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 potent as he had been, like others of his generation, 
 his-class, and his race, he felt now the overwhelming 
 force of elemental passion — that passion common 
 with simpler natures and races, but which in its fiery 
 strength was altogether new to the man of complex 
 modern emotions. 
 
 It is, however, a thing well known to the race 
 of which came the man beside him. And when Don 
 Luis — turning to utter a remark that died on his 
 lips — caught the expression of the other's face, he 
 knew at once what influence had laid its hold upon 
 him. For emotion, however deep, may be disguised, 
 but no disguise is possible for passion in its primi- 
 tive strength. The dark eyes of the Mexican flashed, 
 and his lips closed suddenly and sternly, as if sup- 
 pressing words that sprang to them. He glanced 
 quickly at Carmen, and, meeting her gaze, regarded 
 her with searching intentness. There was an in- 
 stant's pause, while old Maraquita sewed on stead- 
 ily with bent head, and the light from the open win- 
 dow poured upon the little group, and upon the 
 two pictures in which the same figure appeared — 
 there in the mellow tones of age, here in the fresh- 
 ness of colours just laid on — while, as if by some 
 strange miracle, this figure seemed to have stepped 
 from the canvases on which its impress still re- 
 mained, in order to stand, in all the glory of life and 
 youth, between the two men whose glances were 
 each fastened upon it. 
 
 If Carmen's wild fancies had some ground in 
 fact, and the spirit of the Marqu|sa, inherited or 
 otherwise, existed within her, it was possible to un- 
 derstand why she bore these glances with a proud 
 composure, as of one who breathed an atmosphere 
 at once natural and exhilarating, why her bearing 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. loi 
 
 grew more assured, her colour deeper, and her eyes 
 more brilliant, under an observation which might 
 readily have discomposed a girl so young and so 
 imused to admiration. It was she who broke the si- 
 lence at length by speaking, looking from Don Luis 
 to Ingraham as she did so. 
 
 " If the senor has no further need for me at pres- 
 ent, I will go," she said. " Perhaps to-morrow he 
 will not think so poorly of his work." 
 
 "It is possible," answered Ingraham, with a 
 start. Words trembled on his lips — words of en- 
 treaty that she would stay; but to what end? With 
 Don Luis present, further speech was out of the 
 question, and painting was at this moment impos- 
 sible to him. It was best that she should go, and 
 later 
 
 " Yes," he said, gathering himself together with 
 an effort, " I have done all that I can to-day, and 
 need not detain you longer. To-morrow I shall ex- 
 pect you as usual." 
 
 " To-morrow," she repeated, and, with a bend 
 of the head, regal and gracious as her manner had 
 habitually become, passed from the chamber. 
 
 There was another pause between the two men 
 left behind, and then Don Luis spoke in his usual 
 tone : 
 
 " What is the remedy, seiior, for the discourage- 
 ment which has so strangely fallen upon you with 
 regard to your painting? " 
 
 " There is none," answered Ingraham, " except 
 to leave the work for a time. Then I may return 
 to it with revived perceptions and powers. This 
 afternoon I shall take my sketch-book and go out 
 among the hills. I have long desired to make such 
 an excursion, but this picture has absorbed me. 
 
102 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 Now I must put the thought of it away from me, 
 and there is nothing so powerful as the influence 
 of Nature to distract and revive. It I should not 
 return until after nightfall, do not be surprised." 
 
 "You will take a guide with you?" said Don 
 Luis, regarding- him keenly. " Our hills are dan- 
 gerous for a stranger." 
 
 " They will not prove so to me," replied In- 
 graham. " I am familiar with mountains, and I 
 shall not go far. I do not desire a companion, be- 
 cause solitude is what I seek." 
 
 " I understand," said Don Luis. And in his tone 
 was a meaning which Ingraham on his part was far 
 from understanding. 
 
 He understood it less because there was no such 
 thought in his mind as the other imagined. He was 
 sincere in saying that what he desired was a few 
 hours of such deep and complete solitude as the 
 lover of Nature can secure only in Nature's wildest 
 haunts. He wished to look in the face this strange 
 new passion which had seized him; perhaps, after 
 the manner of his kind, to analyze it, and certainly 
 to decide what his course of practical action should 
 be. He had not the least idea of any such meeting 
 with Carmen as Don Luis not only suspected, but 
 entertained no doubt had already been arranged, 
 and when, after the mid-day meal, he set forth, it 
 was with no other intention than he had expressed. 
 
 But chance brought Carmen across his way as 
 he was leaving the house. It was in the lower court, 
 just at the foot of the stairs — she about to mount 
 upward ,as he came downward — ^that he encoun- 
 tered her. To refrain from pausing was impossible, 
 especially since they were sheltered from intrusive 
 eyes either above or below. His heart stirred wildly 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 103 
 
 as her dark, lustrous glance met his own, and in that 
 instant he determined to secure an interview in 
 which he could utter all that was in his heart, could 
 speak without fear of listener or interruption. 
 
 " Carmen," he said, quickly, " I must speak to 
 you — alone. I must tell you what I was about to 
 say when Don Luis came in upon us ; and you must 
 answer me. Your whole life depends on it. Tell me 
 in what place you can meet me this afternoon. I 
 have said that I shall be out until nightfall among 
 the hills. Wherever you can be, I will await you. 
 Do not fear to come." 
 
 Even in this moment it struck him that she must 
 have been expecting such words, so quick was her 
 apprehension, so ready her decision. 
 
 "I can not leave the house," she replied, " until 
 the evening rosary. After that is over I will linger 
 in the church until all are gone, and then I will meet 
 you in the huerta." 
 
 She paused only long enough to speak these 
 words in a low, quick, but unhurried tone, and then 
 passed on, leaving him alone. 
 
 XL 
 
 Ever since Ingraham's arrival at Las Cruces, 
 he had promised himself a day among the wild and 
 beautiful hills that rose in the neighbourhood of the 
 house; but so immediate and so intense had been 
 his absorption in the picture that the present was 
 the first occasion on which he had set forth to fulfil 
 his original intension. And now he found himself 
 
104 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 in no mood to fulfil it, no mood for study of the 
 natural loveliness which surrounded him. With 
 unseeing eyes, with thoughts turned inward, he 
 walked through the picturesque village formed by 
 the houses of the labourers on the estate. Straw- 
 thatched and palm-embowered, these dwellings 
 lined one side of a winding road; on the other a 
 stream came tumbling down from the hills, filling 
 the air with the music of its flowing water, its banks, 
 green with richest verdure, presenting at every turn 
 a picture which at another time would have stayed 
 Ingraham's steps continually. BvUt he walked 
 steadily onward, seeing yet scarcely heeding the 
 beauty around him, until he had left the village be- 
 hind and found himself climbing the hills, still fol- 
 lowing the stream upward along its course, although 
 the musical sound of its waters was now almost lost 
 in the depth of the arroyo where they flowed. A 
 bit of steep climbing — more difficult in the thin air 
 of this high region than on a lower level — and he 
 at length reached the Cerro de las Cruces, a height 
 which derived its name from the remains of three 
 ancient crosses that crowned its summit, tokens 
 of some tragedy so long past as to be forgotten even 
 in the traditions of the people. 
 
 Here he flung himself down and for a brief time 
 forgot even the dominating thought which absorbed 
 him in the enchanting scene that spread before his 
 vision. A great sense of wide space, of magical 
 freshness, encompassed him. The free movement 
 of the air, the strong sunshine beating on the shoul- 
 ders of the giant hills and striving to pierce their 
 sombre ravines, the infinite deeps of over-canopy- 
 ing sky, burning with the blue intensity of a jewel, 
 the hurrying wind that came from leagues of shin- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 105 
 
 ing water afar, the green valley stretching into re- 
 mote distance, bounded by dream-like lake and 
 more dream-like mountains, and the great chain of 
 tossed and broken sierras, with their noble majesty 
 of form and changeful loveliness of tint, all stimu- 
 lated and exhilarated him, so that he drew a deep 
 breath of absolute rapture. Never before had he 
 felt so near to the heart of Nature; never had his 
 inmost being so responded to the primitive, ele- 
 mental forces of life. It was as if, lover of Nature 
 as he had ever been, he had to-day gained a new 
 sense, as if every rushing air that came to him, every 
 ray of sunshine and falling cloud-shadow; had a 
 message and meaning for his awakened soul. The 
 wild, vigourous character of the scenery, the savage 
 grandeur of the hills, the vast idyllic stretch of plain, 
 filled him with a sense of existence wild, free, and 
 untrammelled by the artificial barriers of life. His 
 spirit thrilled with an exulting consciousness of 
 power, as his glance, returning from its wide sweep 
 afar, rested on that spot below, where the fortress- 
 like walls of Las Cruces rose amid its gardens and 
 encircling village. Within those walls Carmen 
 dwelt, prisoned by fate and poverty as hopelessly 
 as the Marquesa had been by the arbitrary will of 
 a man, but, happier than the Marquesa, to her fate 
 had sent a deliverer, one not only able to deliver, 
 but to make life for her all, and more than all, of 
 which she had ever dreamed. Never had he been 
 so grateful for the possession of wealth as in this 
 moment, never so keenly felt the value of the golden 
 key which would enable him to open for her the 
 door of a rich and varied existence. Not an in- 
 stant's doubt occurred to him of his ability to do so. 
 He felt supreme master of his own fate and of hers, 
 
I06 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 as he breathed, Kke an elixir of vitaUty, the clear 
 pure air of his high altitude and looked down upon 
 the spot where in a little while he would meet her. 
 It was part of the exaltation of his mood that he 
 did not ask himself how much he knew of this girl 
 who had so suddenly laid upon his being this hold 
 of fascination. To considerations which at another 
 time would at once have occurred to him — consid- 
 erations of character and antecedents — he now gave 
 not a thought. She was Carmen, and his whole 
 nature claimed her as his own: that was enough. 
 
 And so, rapt in what was little less than ecstasy, 
 into which the great rejoicing face of Nature seemed 
 to enter and make a part, he lay on the mountain- 
 summit, beneath the shadow of the ancient crosses, 
 during the long golden hours of the afternoon. The 
 sun was sinking behind the western sierras, and the 
 valley at his feet lay in shadow, when, mounting 
 upward through the thin, clear, air, came the sound 
 of the chapel bell ringing the first call for the even- 
 ing rosary. From his high eyrie he could see 
 women, like pygmy figures, casting rebosos over 
 their heads as they went toward the chapel. He did 
 not stir until the third and last bell had rung, when, 
 rising, he took his way down the mountain. 
 
 The interval between sunset and dark is not long 
 in these regions, and a colour-flushed twiUght had 
 begun to reign when he entered the huerta, or gar- 
 den, where Carmen had said that she would meet 
 him. It was a beautiful place, the like of which 
 every Mexican country-house possesses, devoted 
 to the culture of trees chiefly useful for their fruits. 
 Of these there was every variety, a very paradise 
 of tropical verdure, through which ran broad alleys, 
 forming vistas of enchanting shade, and converg- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 107 
 
 ing toward a central space where a great old stone 
 basin brimmed with crystal water, drawn from the 
 mountain- stream for the use of both house and gar- 
 den. Stone seats gray with age were placed here, 
 and the air was filled with the rich fragrance of 
 orange-blossoms from the boughs which bent over 
 them. Ingraham knew the spot well, for he had 
 often lingered therein the siesta hours of the day, 
 and he sat down on one of the benches, feeling that 
 Carmen had chosen the time and place well. At 
 this hour they would be secure alike from observa- 
 tion and interruption. The end of the house over- 
 looking the garden contained the chapel, from which 
 now came the shrill sweetness of boys' voices, sing- 
 ing between the decades of the rosary, aiid, when 
 the exercises were over and the people gone, noth- 
 ing could be easier than for the girl to pass into 
 the garden while still supposed (if any one thought 
 of her) to be lingering at her devotions. Assured 
 of her coming, he felt no impatience in the time 
 which elapsed before she appeared, but his eyes 
 never left the momently darkening path down which 
 she would come. 
 
 And at length he saw her figure moving toward 
 him, with a grace of bearing such as, he said to 
 himself, he had never known any other woman to 
 possess. She was advancing swiftly yet without 
 apparent haste, as one who had perfect control of 
 herself and whose vivid energy of life was restrained 
 by a dignity almost superb. The drapery of the 
 reboso shrouded her head and shoulders, even as 
 when he had seen her first, but there was no im- 
 pression now of anything* novice-like or immature. 
 When she emerged into the open space of the foun- 
 tain, and the dying light fell fully on her face, he saw 
 
I08 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 that her eyes were shining with the brilliance which 
 only strong emotion waked in them, while she 
 looked at him not with the shyness of a girl who 
 came to keep tryst with a yet undeclared lover, but 
 with the composure of a woman certain of herself 
 and her command of the situation. • As she ap- 
 proached he rose to his feet and advanced eagerly 
 to meet her, but it was she who spoke first, pausing 
 and regarding him with her brilliant glance. 
 
 " I have come, as I promised," she said. " What 
 is il that you wish to tell me? " 
 
 The quiet imperiousness of her words, instead 
 of checking his ardour, acted upon it like a chal- 
 lenge. He looked at her with a glance as direct 
 as hers, and full of deeper fire, while the force of 
 passion within him found utterance in words as 
 simple and strong as itself. " I love you," he said. 
 " That is what I wished to tell you. My heart, my 
 life, my whole being, are yours. And, so loving 
 you, I wish to set you free from all the irksome 
 conditions of your life. You belong to me, Car- 
 men, for I have found you and wakened in you the 
 knowledge of what you are. Having done so, do 
 you think that I will leave you to the narrow and 
 bitter fate which threatens you? No: you must 
 triist me and come with me ! I can give you all that 
 your nature demands, and love, such love as words 
 are too feeble to express. Carmen, have you no 
 love for me?" 
 
 It was the very appeal of love itself — of love 
 overmastering and poignant — which filled his voice 
 in the last words. A supplication, an entreaty, it 
 was also a command, under which one who loved 
 could not have remained silent. But Carmen hesi- 
 tated before she spoke, and then her tone had in 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 109 
 
 it an aloofness that struck upon his spirit as a 
 chill. 
 
 " Senor," she said, " I know' not how to answer 
 you. I have not thought of love. Until you came, 
 I lived the life of a child. Since then I have dreamed 
 of power and admiration and the love which men 
 might feel for me; but that / should love, / — no, 
 sefior, I have not dreamed of that. And yet " 
 
 She paused, and through the deepening dusk 
 her eyes flashed their splendid fire. into his, as if 
 sudden emotion leaped within her like a flame. 
 
 " And yet," she went on, with a quick indrawing 
 of the breath, " to love is to live, is it not so? Then 
 I shall love you when I have had time to think, to 
 feel; for life rises within me like, a fountain, and 
 your words find an echo in my heart. And it is 
 natural that I should love you, who have brought 
 such change and awakening into my life, who look 
 at me and speak to me as no one else has looked 
 or spoken. No one else has thought the poor Car- 
 men worth a glance, but yoii " 
 
 " I find her worth all that a man can give and 
 do and dare ! " he said, taking her hand and kiss- 
 ing it, as they stood together in' the orange-scented 
 twilight. " Ah, Carmen, only love me, only let your 
 heart speak for me, and what happiness is before 
 us! If I could but inspire you with the confidence 
 I feel that we are meant for . each other, that my 
 coming here was no mere chance, that I was sent 
 to release you, my princess, from the cruel enchant- 
 ment of your lot! In the old fairy-tales, which are 
 but fables of life, the princess always belonged to 
 him who rescued her, is it not so? And you, my Car- 
 mencita, belong to me by every right known to ro- 
 mance — by right ot finding, by right of wakening, - 
 
no THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 by right of passionate love and passionate desire 
 to malie your life all that Nature, when she fashioned 
 you, intended it should be. I, who know the world 
 and have seen its fairest women, lay my heart and 
 my life at your feet as I have never laid them at the 
 feet of any other. I would give all that I possess, 
 fortune, friends, country, for your love, if by no 
 other means could I gain and possess it. Carmen, 
 there is a light in your eyes which seems to say that 
 you are mine ; but speak to me, tell me in your own 
 sweet tongue that you love me, that you trust me, 
 that you will come with me ! " 
 
 She bent toward him as a stately flower sways 
 on its stem, and the eyes of which he spoke seemed 
 in their luminous splendour searching his own. 
 
 " Seiior — Don Rafael," she murmured, " it is as 
 you say. Every right is yours. And if I give all 
 that you ask — for it will be easy to love you, and 
 when one loves one trusts, is it not so? — will you 
 take me away, into the world? " 
 
 " Can you doubt it? " he asked, drawing her 
 with a quick motion into his arms. " I shall not lose 
 a day in seeking your father and asking your hand. 
 He will not refuse me: of that be sure. All shall 
 be done openly and with honour, and, that it may 
 be so, I will at once tell your friends and guardians 
 here my purpose toward you." 
 
 " That is well resolved, Seiior Ingraham," said 
 a quiet voice near by, and, before either could move 
 or speak, Don Luis stepped from one of the deep 
 clumps of surrounding shade into the open space 
 beside them. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. ui 
 
 XII. 
 
 Ingraham turned sharply — not with a guilty 
 start, but with the manner of a man who feels in 
 every fibre a hot flush of rage and indignation. 
 
 " Don Luis ! " he exclaimed, adding, with fiery 
 disdain, "Do Mexican gentlemen, then, act as eaves- 
 droppers?" 
 
 " Carmen," said Don Luis, addressing the girl, 
 who had recoiled and now stood with one hand 
 pressed upon her heart, " do me the favour to go 
 into the house. Later I will speak to you. But now 
 I wish to speak to Senor Ingraham alone." 
 
 Obediently as a child. Carmen turned and with- 
 out a word moved away, along the path by which 
 she had come. Ingraham was conscious of an im- 
 pulse to detain her, to deny the right of Don Luis 
 to send her away; but swift reflection showed him 
 that this would be folly. It was better that she 
 should go than remain to hear the words which 
 trembled on his lips, to witness in what fashion he 
 would deal with one who first played the spy and 
 then arrogated to himself a right of interference 
 which he did not possess. Trembling with anger, 
 he was about to speak again, when Don Luis an- 
 ticipated him. 
 
 " I do not understand English very well, senor," 
 he said, gravely, " and therefore I did not compre- 
 hend the word which you applied to me a moment 
 ago. But that is immaterial. I understand what 
 you meant " 
 
 " If you are in any doubt," Ingraham interposed, 
 " I will tell you what I meant. I do not know the 
 
112 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 Spanish equivalent for the word which I used, but 
 it means one who Hstens dishonourably to what is 
 not intended for him to hear — a spy, in short! " 
 
 He hurled the word with scornful emphasis at 
 the other, and, knowing well the quickness of his race 
 to resent insult, waited with the fierce longing for 
 a quarrel — for any excuse to take another by the 
 throat — which few men are so well disciplined as 
 not to have known once or twice in Ufe. 
 
 But it seemed that he was not to be gratified. 
 With perfect self-control Don Luis replied, " It was 
 unnecessary to have made your meaning more of- 
 fensive. I have already said that I understood what 
 you meant. Gentlemen do not deal in epithets, else 
 I should ask if your own conduct has been very 
 honourable. In Mexico we would not think so. 
 Our maidens are sacred with us, and the man who 
 enticed one into meeting him secretly and alone 
 would be held to have either a very bad motive or 
 a very defective knowledge of what is proper and 
 honourable. He would, also, be held sternly to ac- 
 count. But I have heard that there is a different 
 custom in your country, and, therefore, even when 
 I suspected that you had made such an appointment 
 I did not wish to judge you rashly. I was willing 
 to believe that your motive was not as dishonour- 
 able as it would have appeared in a Mexican who 
 had acted in the same manner. But none the less 
 was I bound to guard Carmen, who is like a child 
 of my house and committed by her parents to my 
 mother's care, against harm and danger. I knew 
 nothing, but I suspected much — for faces are elo- 
 quent sometimes — and I easily arranged that she 
 could not leave the house this afternoon without 
 my knowledge- " 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 113 
 
 " You speak of honour," interrupted Ingraham, 
 bitterly. " Would it not have been more honour- 
 able to tell her frankly that she was a prisoner? " 
 
 " I think not," answered the other, with un- 
 moved dignity. " To tell her that would have been 
 to insult, to wound her, if she had no such intention 
 as I suspected. It was better to be sure, and do no 
 one injustice — neither her nor you. I was in the 
 sacristy of the chapel during the exercises; I saw 
 her linger until she thought herself alone, and when 
 she went out I followed her. According to your 
 code, that was dishonourable; according to mine, 
 it was not only honourable, but my plain and im- 
 perative duty. I need hardly remind you, senor, 
 that you are a stranger to me, and, as I have already 
 said, in our ideas the man who would violate the 
 hospitality of the roof that sheltered him by lead- 
 ing a young girl to meet him in secret might read- 
 ily prove himself a villain." 
 
 These quiet, incisive words were like arrows 
 that struck through Ingraham's anger to a deep, 
 underlying sense of reason and justice which with 
 him could never long be dormant. He suddenly 
 saw himself and his own action from the stand-point 
 of Don Luis, and he felt the hot blood surge again 
 to his face — this time from a keen emotion of shame. 
 He lifted his hand with a quick gesture. 
 
 " Enough, seiior! " he said. " I see — I acknowl- 
 edge that you are right and I am wrong. But, be- 
 lieve me, the thought of violating your hospitality 
 was as far from my intention as the thought of wrong- 
 ing by a word the girl whom I asked to meet me 
 only that, secure from interruption, I might tell her 
 what was in my heart and obtain her permission 
 to offer myself to her father as a suitor for her hand." 
 
114 '^^^ PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 " Of that your words to her have already as- 
 sured me," said Don Luis, with grave courtesy, 
 " else I should not be speaking to you here. I 
 recognise that, acting no doubt according to the 
 customs of your country, you forgot how different 
 are the customs of ours." 
 
 " To speak the exact truth," said Ingraham, " I 
 think that I forgot everything except — Carmen.'' 
 
 " Ah, Carmen! " said Don Luis. He was silent 
 for a moment, and then, producing his cigarette- 
 case, he held it put, in token of renewed amity. 
 There followed the little ceremony of lighting, after 
 which the two men seated themselves on one of the 
 stone benches placed under the flowering orange 
 boughs. To Ingraham's mind there was nothing 
 left to say, but evidently this was not the opinion 
 of Don Luis. 
 
 It was in accordance with his wishes, expressed 
 by a movement of the hand, that they had seated 
 themselves. Yet for some minutes he did not speak. 
 Both sat smoking silently, the odour of their cigar- 
 ettes mingling with the perfume of the blossoms 
 above them. Ingraham's thoughts returned and 
 dwelt with passionate intensity on his meeting with 
 Carmen, on the brief, too brief, moment of ecstasy 
 when she had drooped toward him like a flower 
 laden with its own sweetness, and he had taken her 
 into his arms. Absorbed in this recollection, he 
 had well-nigh forgotten the presence of Don Luis 
 when the latter finally spoke: 
 
 " I think I understood you to say, senor, that 
 you intend to address yourself at once to Carmen's 
 father? " 
 
 "At once," Ingraham replied, with decision. 
 " I must, therefore, ask you to add to your hos- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 115 
 
 pitable kindness by sending me to Patzcuaro to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " It will be unnecessary," was the quiet response. 
 " To-morrow Don Gilberto will be at Las Cruces." 
 
 " To-morrow — ^here! " repeated Ingraham, with 
 astonishment. " May I ask how long you have 
 known this? " 
 
 " Since I sent a telegraphic message to-day re- 
 questing his presence," Don Luis replied. " I felt 
 it right to do this as soon as I became aware how 
 matters stood with Carmen and yourself." 
 
 " It appears to me," said Ingraham, coldly, after 
 a moment's pause in which he subdued a rising im- 
 pulse to anger, " that you leaped to a conclusion 
 for which you had at that time no foundation. It 
 would be interesting to know how you arrived at 
 it." 
 
 " I have already remarked that faces are some- 
 times eloquent," answered Don Luis. " Your face 
 this morning told me what you felt; and when men 
 feel certain emotions, expression is as sure to fol- 
 low as flame to leap from fire. As for Carmen " — 
 he lifted his shoulders in a gesture which the ob- 
 scurity did not hide — " she is a child, a woman. I 
 had no doubt that she would listen to you, and how 
 far flattered vanity and the first stirring of nature 
 might carry her I did not know. Consequently, I 
 sent for her father." 
 
 Again Ingraham repressed an inclination to 
 state in words more emphatic than polite his opinion 
 of this interference. Yet, annoying as it was to be 
 placed more or less in the position of a culprit, when 
 he had meant to go to Don Gilberto as a very lordly 
 suitor, he could not but feel that it would be better 
 to have the matter settled at once without the neces- 
 
Il6 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 sity of leaving Las Cruces. Unconsciously Don 
 Luis had done him a service, although it was one 
 for which he did not feel grateful. Something of 
 this he would have expressed, had not the other, 
 after a short pause, gone on speaking: 
 
 " I had, besides, another reason for summon- 
 ing Don Gilberto. It is a reason which I am not 
 in any way bound to mention to you, but I prefer to 
 do so, since you might else think that I had not 
 dealt frankly and honourably with you. I deter- 
 mined to-day that I would myself ask his daughter 
 in marriage." 
 
 " You ! " cried Ingraham. It was an absolute 
 gasp of astonishment; and for a moment he could 
 say no more. Then he turned fiercely. " But now," 
 he said, " you know that it is useless to do so — that 
 she has given herself to me." 
 
 " Pardon me," returned Don Luis, quietly, " but 
 again I must remind you of our Mexican ideas and 
 customs. A girl of Carmen's age can not give her- 
 self without the consent of her parents. And, more- 
 over, unless I am greatly mistaken, what she granted 
 to you was no more than a hope that she would 
 return your love, and this because she was moved 
 by the unaccustomed incense of passion and the 
 promise of freedom and pleasure. That her heart 
 is yours at present, I do not think it possible for you 
 to believe." 
 
 " But I do believe it! " Ingraham asserted, with 
 a vehemence which perhaps was due to some in- 
 ward conviction of the truth of these unpalatable 
 words. " I will not speak again of the manner in 
 which I regard your having listened to a conversa- 
 tion such as ours," he went on, his voice thrilling 
 with the same accent of fiery disdain that had been 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 117 
 
 in it when he first addressed the man who inter- 
 rupted his love-scene at its culminating moment. 
 " But I utterly deny the inference you have drawn, 
 that Carmen is still open to be won. She is mine! 
 — mine by her own deliberate choice, and mine also 
 by the right of discovery. You have known her 
 all her life : did you ever think of her, or even look 
 at her, until / showed you what she is? You know 
 that you never did, you know that she had been a 
 mere menial in your house until I roused her from 
 the apathy of obscurity and neglect, until I made 
 you see your proud ancestress reproduced line for 
 line and tint for tint, until, looking at her with my 
 eyes, you perceived that she was fit to grace a court 
 and formed to rouse a man's deepest adoration." 
 He had risen from his seat as he spoke, and stood 
 in the' soft mingling of dusk and star-shine, a tall, 
 dark figure, instinct in every line with passionate 
 energy. " You may think," he added, " that be- 
 cause her father is in a sense your creature you 
 have but to speak and she will be yours. I tell you, 
 no! I am not so powerless as I seem, and I — to 
 whom she belongs — I will fight for her to the 
 death!" 
 
 " Senor Ingraham," said the Mexican, preserv- 
 ing now as throughout the interview his self-control 
 and courtesy unmoved, " sit down, and let us speak 
 calmly. It is not necessary- that we should fight, 
 nor yet that we should forget that we are gentle- 
 men, because our desires are set upon the same 
 woman. It is true, what you have said. But for 
 you I should probably never have seen Carmen as 
 she is, never have recognised her beauty and her 
 natural fitness for a high position. She was dis- 
 guised by her youth and her obscurity from my 
 
Il8 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 observation. But you came, your artist glance de- 
 tected the unnoticed likeness to the Marquesa, you 
 made us see it, you developed it by painting her 
 portrait, and then, as was natural, you fell in love 
 with the beauty which you felt that you in a manner 
 had created. All of this I understand. But none 
 of it gives you the right to declare that Carmen be- 
 longs to you." 
 
 " Her own words have given me that right," 
 said Ingraham, who had not acceded to the request 
 to sit down, but still stood erect. 
 
 " Permit me to again question that," said Don 
 Luis.- " At least I think you will admit that she has 
 not bound herself to you in such fashion as to pre- 
 clude her possibility and right of choice should an- 
 other suitor present himself. To say otherwise 
 would be to prove that, notwithstanding your posi- 
 tive assertions, you would fear the result." 
 
 " I should not fear it in the least," Ingraham 
 declared, " if I were sure that she was permitted 
 to make a free and unbiased choice. But I am not 
 sure of that." 
 
 " Seiior," said Don Luis, rising in his turn and 
 speaking with a stateliness of manner which sat well 
 upon him, " allow me to assure you that I am a man 
 of honour. If I desired or intended to deal unfairly 
 with you in this matter, what would have been easier 
 for me than to hold my peace, to influence Don Gil- 
 berto in secret against you — ^which, frankly, I could 
 very readily do — to induce him to withhold his con- 
 sent, without which you could not marry Carmen, 
 and, when you were safely sent away, to marry her 
 myself? But; instead of this, I have dealt openly 
 with you, I have told you my wishes before they 
 are known to any one else, I have even allowed 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 119 
 
 you to have the great advantage of first pleading 
 your cause, which I could with ease have prevented ; 
 and I now tell you that I pledge my word, I, Luis 
 Fernandez del Valle, that Carmen's choice shall be 
 absolutely free, that I will not permit her father to 
 influence her should he desire to do so; and with 
 this assurance I have the honour to bid you good- 
 night." 
 
 He bowed, and was turning away, when In- 
 graham stopped him. * 
 
 " Stay, senor," he said, " at least long enough 
 to let me apologize for my rudeness. You will par- 
 don me when you consider what I have at stake 
 and how great are your advantages over me. But 
 I accept your rebuke. I have no fear that you will_ 
 not act with honour, and I can ask no more than that 
 Carmen's choice shall be free." 
 
 " I repeat my promise that it shall be so," said 
 Don Luis; "and, this being assured, I think we 
 shall need no lesson to teach us each to abide by it." 
 
 In mute assent Ingraham held out his hand, and 
 then, without another word, they left the garden 
 together. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Ingraham had been sincere in saying to Don 
 Luis that his advantages over him were great, at 
 least on this his native heath; but he might have 
 added that they were not such as caused him to 
 despair. At Las Cruces rivalry seemed indeed vain 
 and presumptuous between the lord of the soil and 
 
120 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 a wandering foreign painter, supposed to be lord 
 of nothing. But tlie latter knew well that this dif- 
 ference, which was only apparent, would vanish 
 at a word from himself. And that word it would 
 be necessary to speak to Don Gilberto, for an in- 
 stinct warned him that matters far more practical 
 than his daughter's possible inclination would alone 
 weigh with that gentleman in deciding between the 
 two suitors. At first, of course, he would incline 
 to the suit of Don Luis; bilt Ingraham had not the 
 faintest doubt that he could bring considerations 
 of such a solid and tangible nature to bear as would 
 finally insure his consent for himself. Yet even 
 while deciding on this — on plainly and openly buy- 
 ing the father — he determined that these considera- 
 tions should, not be brought to bear upon the daugh- 
 ter. A little while before, had it occurred to him 
 to do so, he would have told her without hesita- 
 tion, and without attaching importance to' the 
 revelation, that, while it had pleased Nature to make 
 him an artist, it had also pleased Fortune to mate 
 him a millionaire. But now, confronted by the 
 rivalry of a man who was in all respects the greatest 
 in her world — the head of the house of which she 
 was a barely acknowledged offshoot — and stung by. 
 that man's assertions that she had not given him 
 her heart, he resolved to put the matter to the test, 
 and win her, if she were to be won, against the 
 heavy odds of- the other's higher station and com- 
 parative wealth. It was a romantic device which 
 he had always scorned" when he encountered it in 
 fiction, because it impHed so low a standard of be- 
 lief in the high-mindedness of others. To entertain 
 the suspicion that any one whom he found worthy 
 of love and the respect that must accompany love 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 12 1 
 
 could be swayed by mercenary considerations, he 
 had always felt to be an impossibility, implying, as 
 it did, absolute lack of confidence in his own power 
 of judging character, and a sordid doubt of another 
 which to a noble mind could seem nothing less than 
 an insult. It followed, therefore, that the test on 
 which he had resolved was in no sense meant for 
 Carmen, but only to prove triumphantly to Don 
 Luis that she had given him her love. For of this 
 he had himself no doubt. The ardour of his own 
 passion seemed to him to call for return as impera- 
 tively as one great attraction of the earth answers 
 to another, as the resistless force of gravity draws 
 objects downward, or the tides yearn upward toward 
 the moon. What he had said to her, that they were 
 meant for each other, that it was no mere chance 
 which had brought him to Las Cruces, he believed 
 with an intensity that left no room in his mind for 
 question. She was his by every possible claim — his, 
 as he had declared, not only by right of discovery, 
 but by right of awakening to knowledge of herself. 
 And when was it ever heard that the bold adven- 
 turer who rescues and awakens the sleeping princess 
 yielded her to another? 
 
 Supported, then, by confidence which rested on 
 a double basis — belief in Carmen's love, and con- 
 sciousness of the power to purchase Don Gilberto's 
 consent — he waited with patience during the long 
 hours of the next day for the arrival of the latter. 
 Since their parting in the garden he had not seen 
 Carmen, nor had he even looked at the picture, 
 which in his present mood he could not touch. The 
 morning he spent in the huerta, wandering through 
 its shade-lined alleys and pausing for long intervals 
 at the fountain, where he dreamed over again the 
 
122 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 moments of that interview which Don Luis had so 
 ruthlessly ended. In the afternoon he again as- 
 cended the Cerro de las Cruces, longing, in the rest- 
 less tumult of his feelings, for the great solitude of 
 Nature, for the ineflfable sense of exaltation and 
 wide freedom which he had experienced there the 
 day before. 
 
 He found it all, as it were, awaiting him, when 
 he reached the summit of the height, and, throwing 
 himself down upon the ground, took off his hat that 
 he might feel on his brow the cooling touch of the 
 breeze that swept over the Sierras, and while his 
 gaze dwelt upon the vast expanse of aerial distance, 
 of enchanting light and colour spread afar, his spirit 
 steeped itself in the most exquisite dreams. Again 
 there came to him a sense of mastery over fate which 
 made it seem of small importance how soon he met 
 Don Gilberto. All the future belonged to him and 
 to Carmen, and any effort to take her from him — 
 him, her discoverer — was, in his rapt consciousness, 
 so absolutely predestined to failure that it appeared 
 unworthy of consideration, far less concern. 
 
 In this mood he saw the arrival of Don Gilberto, 
 as the mountains were casting their long shadows 
 over "the luxuriant valley, and the freshness of even- 
 ing already began to draw forth a thousand resin- 
 ous odours from the forests which clothed the slopes 
 and gorges of the hills. He had identified the group 
 of horsemen when they first came into his range 
 of vision afar, apparently creeping along the wind- 
 ing road through the broad hacienda lands, and 
 there had been time enough for him to have 
 descended and met Don Gilberto when he reached 
 the casa grande. But he said to himself that there 
 was no need to do this. In the assurance of success 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 123 
 
 which possessed his spirit, impatience had died away. 
 Let Don Luis have, his say: what difference did 
 it make? All would be the same in the end. He 
 held in his hand the means to purchase the consent 
 of Don Gilberto, let what would be arrayed against 
 him. 
 
 So, surrounded by all the peaceful influences of 
 Nature, an hour went by and he had not stirred. 
 Yet lower had sunk the sun toward the faint blue 
 masses of mountains far in the west, yet longer had 
 grown the shadows in the valley, yet fresher the 
 breeze and more delicious the wild odours which 
 it brought, when he was suddenly roused from his 
 state of quiescence by the sound of a step ascend- 
 ing the mountain. The solitude around him had 
 up to this time been so absolutely unbroken that he 
 raised himself with a sense of surprise, which was 
 greatly increased when Don Gilberto suddenly 
 emerged upon the summit beside him. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Ingraham, here you are ! " said that 
 gentleman, panting a little from the steep ascent, 
 although he was lean and light as a greyhound. 
 " They told me in the village that you had gone this 
 way, and I fancied I should find you here. A splen- 
 did lookout, eh? I do not wonder you like it. But 
 I should notcare to climb up here very often, even 
 for the sake of enjoying it." 
 
 " I am sorry that you should have taken the 
 trouble to make the ascent at the present time in 
 order to find me," Ingraham replied. " I intended 
 to descend very shortly, and should have met you 
 at the house." 
 
 " Yes, I had no doubt of that," said the other, 
 easily, " but I preferred to come here. A mountain- 
 top is the best place that I know for a confidential 
 
124 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 conversation. One has no fear of listeners in a spot 
 like this." 
 
 " For my part," said Ingraham, " I have nothing 
 to say that any one disposed to listen is not welcome 
 to hear." 
 
 " One does not always know ^yhat may arise 
 in a discussion," observed Don Gilberto, with an 
 air of wisdom. " In this, as in other things, there 
 is nothing like being on the safe side." He seated 
 himself as he spoke, and then, turning to his com- 
 panion, added quickly, " And so, Mr. Ingraham, 
 despite your promise to me when we parted, you 
 have been making love to my daughter." 
 
 The form of the remark, as well as the manner 
 of the speaker, was excessively distasteful to In- 
 graham, and his distaste' displayed itself in a haughti- 
 ness that changed the entire expression of his face. 
 Only those who had seen this change were aware 
 how his features lent themselves to it, and how cold 
 and distant the glance of his gray eyes could be- 
 come. Those eyes now met Don Gilberto's very 
 fully and directly. 
 
 " Pardon me," he said, " you have fallen into a 
 mistake. I have not made love to your daughter 
 in the sense in which you use the term. I have had 
 the honour to offer myself to her, with the intention 
 should she accept me — ^which, I am happy to say, 
 she has done — of referring my suit at once to your- 
 self. Had I not learned that you were expected at 
 Las Cruces to-day, I should now be on my way to 
 Morelia to inform you of what has occurred, and 
 ask your consent to our marriage." 
 
 "The deuce you would!" said Don Gilberto. 
 The coolness and entire absence of anything like 
 apology in this speech surprised and impressed him. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 125 
 
 His own manner became more respectful, and his 
 next words were in a degree apologetic. 
 
 " I had no intention of saying anything offens- 
 ive," he remarked. " I am aware that your love- 
 making to my daughter has been of an honourable 
 character, and not the idle flattery and flirtation 
 against which I took the hberty of cautioning you 
 when we parted. That you should wish to marry 
 her is an honour which I fully appreciate, but, with 
 every sentiment of regard for yourself, I am com- 
 pelled to decline your offer. Carmen, although a 
 beautiful woman, as you have been the first to per- 
 ceive, would not prove a suitable wife for you. She 
 is in all respects a Mexican, and it is best that she 
 should marry one of her own people." 
 
 " Don Luis, in short," said Ingraham, calmly. 
 " I expected this, since he told me last night of his 
 intention to offer himself as a suitor for her hand." 
 
 " It is a match such as I could never have 
 dreamed of for her! " cried Don Gilberto, w.ith a 
 flash of exultation in his eyes. " And I feel, Mr. 
 Ingraham, that I owe it to you. But for your show- 
 ing us — ^blind bats that we had been — her likeness 
 to the Marquesa, but for your proving and develop- 
 ing this likeness by painting her portrait, Don Luis, 
 as he frankly acknowledges, would never have 
 thought of such a thing. One of those girls down 
 there" — he pointed to the village below them — 
 " was as much within the sphere of his possible 
 choice as Carmen when you came. Judge, then, 
 if I wish to be in any respect offensive to you, if I 
 do not feel for your disappointment, and if I do not 
 thank you from my heart for the honour you do my 
 child, and the elevation you have made possible for 
 her." 
 
 9 
 
126 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 There was no doubting the sincerity of the feel- 
 ing which filled this speech, and Ingraham could 
 not but smile at the gratitude so profusely tendered 
 him for making his own rival possible. There was 
 an instant's pause before he spoke, with a quietness 
 which contrasted strongly with Don Gilberto's ef- 
 fusiveness : 
 
 " May I ask if you have consulted your daughter 
 in a matter which so closely concerns her? Are you 
 aware that she has promised herself to me? " 
 
 " The act of a child! " said Don Gilberto, with 
 a careless gesture, but a somewhat uneasy expres- 
 sion. " What she has promised counts for nothing. 
 She will do as she is told. And it is better for you, 
 Mr. Ingraham, much better, believe me. This lit- 
 tle romance will soon be forgotten, and you will 
 marry some woman of the world who can enter into 
 your life as my Carmen would never be able to do. 
 She •' 
 
 " Pardon me," said Ingraham again with polite- 
 ness, " but I do not think that I have asked your 
 opinion upon the kind of wife who would suit me. 
 I have simply asked your consent to marrying your 
 daughter. The rest is my affair. I understand you 
 to refuse your consent on the ground that Don Luis 
 is a better match than I am. Judging from ap- 
 pearances, you are right in thinking so. But ap- 
 pearances are very often deceptive, as a man so 
 well versed in knowledge of the world as yourself 
 must be aware. I am not a Mexican haciendado, 
 bearing an old Spanish name, and with a Marquesa 
 painted by Velasquez for an ancestress ; but I ven- 
 ture to assert nevertheless that I am a better match 
 for your daughter than Don Luis. Because I paint 
 pictures you have naturally supposed that I am an 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 127 
 
 artist by profession. But this is not so. I should 
 probably paint better pictures — at least my friends 
 think so — if I were dependent upon those pictures 
 for support. But as a matter of fact I am a very 
 rich man, having inherited a large fortune. If you 
 desire confirmation of my statements you can read- 
 ily obtain it. I will give you the names of a dozen 
 people, including the American minister in Mexico, 
 to whom you can write. But it will meantime save 
 time and trouble if you believe me, and so make 
 it possible for us to enter into practical arrange- 
 ments." 
 
 " You are a man of fortune — of large fortune ! " 
 said Don Gilberto, with the manner of one who 
 takes in a totally new idea. " Then the Velas- 
 quez " 
 
 " I intended, and still intend if possible, to pur- 
 chase for myself. The profit promised you I should 
 also have paid myself. I failed to mention this fact, 
 not from love of mystery, but because a man natu- 
 rally increases his price for an article when he finds 
 that it is wanted by a millionaire." 
 
 " You are a millionaire," said Don Gilberto, in 
 a tone of awed astonishment, " and you wish to 
 marry my daughter! " 
 
 " So much that I am prepared to make it very - 
 practically to your advantage to consent that I shall 
 do so. Remember the great power of money, Don 
 Gilberto — money, which you told me yourself that 
 Don Luis lacks — and acknowledge that it will be 
 to your interest that your daughter shall marry 
 me. 
 
 " Let me think ! " said Don Gilberto, hoarsely. 
 He sprang to his feet, and, walking away a short 
 distance, paced to and fro, with arms folded and 
 
128 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 head bent, evidently reflecting deeply. The per- 
 ception of his indecision had no effect upon In- 
 graham's conviction of ultimate success. He was 
 sure that he had taken accurately the measure of 
 this man, whom from their first meeting he had re- 
 garded as belonging unmistakably to the genus ad- 
 venturer, and that such a man could resist the golden 
 bait he held out he did not for a moment believe. 
 His own outward calmness was perfect, but his in- 
 tense inward excitement was betrayed by the shak- 
 ing of his hand as he lighted a cigarette. He smiled 
 slightly as he marked this. He did not need such 
 a sign to tell him how strongly and quickly his pulses 
 wete beating; but his apparent composure did not 
 change, not even as the minutes lengthened and 
 Don Gilberto still paced to and fro. " The matter 
 is very simple : what can he find in it to demand so 
 much reflection?" Ingraham asked himself, and 
 even as the thought was passing through his mind, 
 Don Gilberto returned to his side. 
 
 He was looking pale, and his face was set as it 
 had not been before. " Mr. Ingraham," he said, 
 " I have weighed everything, and while the tempta- 
 tion you offer is, I confess, great, my decision re- 
 mains unchanged. It is best that my daughter shall 
 marry Don Luis." 
 
 The tone of these words — ^the tone of a decision 
 fixed and unalterable — produced in Ingraham's 
 mind for a moment a sense of dismay, the effect of 
 a surprise so great as to be startling. But, though 
 surprised and even dismayed, he had no thought 
 of accepting such a decision. He only said to him- 
 self that the struggle would be more difficult than 
 he had anticipated; but of final victory he had still 
 no doubt. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 129 
 
 " Let me remind you," he said, quietly, " that 
 you have not had an opportunity to. weigh the ad- 
 vantages which I am prepared to offer. I have only 
 spoken in general terms so far. With your permis- 
 sion, I will now be more particular." 
 
 " It is useless," replied Don Gilberto, quickly. 
 " You can tempt me, as I have confessed, but you 
 can not change my resolution. My daughter must 
 marry Don Luis." 
 
 " Have you forgotten," demanded Ingraham, in 
 a low, incisive tone, " that your daughter has ac- 
 cepted me?" 
 
 " I have already told you," was the cool reply, 
 " that whatever she may have said on such a- sub- 
 ject counts for nothing. In Mexico we do not allow 
 the fancies of boys and girls to settle the most im- 
 portant aflfair of life. My daughter will obey 
 me." 
 
 " Do not be too sure of that," said Ingraham, 
 his restrained excitement suddenly bursting into 
 flame. " She will not obey you, if I have any influ- 
 ence over her. And you are not, perhaps, aware 
 that Don Luis has pledged himself that she shall 
 have perfect freedom of choice. In other words, 
 he is not ready to take her as an unwilling bride 
 from your hand. He will join me in demanding 
 that she shall be left at liberty to choose between 
 us." 
 
 Don Gilberto was again silent for a moment. 
 Then, regarding his companion steadily, he said, 
 " I perceive that to avoid trouble, to all concerned 
 it is necessary for me to be frank with you, Mr. In- 
 graham. I should have been glad to avoid this, 
 
 if possible, but Well, fortunately we are on a 
 
 mountain-top, secure from listeners, and I must 
 
130 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 ask your word of honour to hold absolutely secret 
 what I am about to reveal to you." 
 
 " I could not think of divulging anything which 
 you desired to be held secret," Ingraham replied, 
 conscious of a sense of apprehension inspired more 
 by the manner than by the words of the other. " But 
 I should be sorry if you were forced to disclose any- 
 thing painful or disagreeable to yourself." 
 
 " I can not pretend that what I am about to 
 disclose is not both painful and disagreeable to me," 
 Don Gilberto answered. " I must speak of matters 
 which I have long endeavoured to forget, in order 
 to convince you that it is better to abide by my de- 
 cision and think no more of Carmen. Once again, 
 will you not believe that I have reasons stronger than 
 you are aware of for refusing your proposals, and 
 accept my resolution as unalterable?" 
 
 " Certainly not," returned Ingraham, with em- 
 phasis. " I have told you that I will accept noth- 
 ing but her own decision." 
 
 Don Gilberto shrugged his shoulders. " I might 
 have known the obstinacy of a man in love," he said. 
 " To tlie point, then! You tell me that you are a 
 man of wealth; I have myself recognised from the 
 day of our first meeting that you are a gentleman; 
 and these things, taken together, mean that you 
 are at home a man of high social position. Now, 
 such a man can not afford to marry the, daughter 
 of one who, if he returned to his native country, 
 would be tried and convicted of offences against 
 the law." 
 
 Ingraham gave a great start. To himself he said 
 that he had suspected this, yet the suspicion had 
 been so vague that the shock was overwhelming. 
 He was incapable of speech, had opportunity for it 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 131 
 
 been afforded him. But Don Gilberto quietly went 
 on: 
 
 " It all happened a long time ago — so long that 
 men have had time to forget me a,nd my offences. 
 Yet I fancy that you could find many still to recall 
 the name of Gilbert Rose Ponton: in fact, I per- 
 ceive by your face that you have heard it yourself." 
 
 " Yes, I have heard it," Ingraham answered, 
 distinctly, although he felt as if he were speaking 
 in a horrible dream. " When I was very young I 
 heard your — defalcations spoken of. My father 
 was, I think, a sufferer to some extent. But I also 
 heard that you had committed suicide." 
 
 " I arranged matters so that it might be sup- 
 posed that I had drowned myself," said the other, 
 calmly. " I saw no good to be gained by spending 
 my life in prison. It would not have restored the 
 lost money, for the misuse of which I was not wholly 
 nor even chiefly accountable, though I was the 
 scrapegoat to bear all the blame. One thing I as- 
 sure you : I carried none of it away with me. I left 
 the country with empty hands, and came to Mexico. 
 In those days this was a terra incognita; no railroad 
 had yet entered it, and I took care to go far from 
 places where I would have been likely to meet any 
 of the few Americans who then wandered here. A 
 little while, however, made me so much a Mexican 
 that I would have defied any one to detect me as 
 a foreigner had I chosen not to be detected. Then 
 I married, merged the identity of Fenton still more 
 thoroughly in that of Rosa, lived altogether among 
 Mexicans as one of themselves, and have, as a rule, 
 avoided forming the acquaintance of my former 
 countrymen, not so much from the fear of any awk- 
 ward disclosure as from dislike to the associations 
 
132 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 which they awakened. I violated this rule when I 
 made your acquaintance, and am now forced to re- 
 gret it. At least, if you pfersist in giving me trouble 
 about Carmen, I shall regret it. But I hope that no 
 further words on my part are necessary to demon- 
 strate to you that it is out of the question for you 
 to marry her." 
 
 " I do not see that," said Ingraham, facing him 
 with eyes full of pain but also full of resolution. 
 " What you have told me does not alter Carmen, 
 nor yet my love for her. That you have been hon- 
 ourable enough to tell me your story makes me re- 
 spect you as I have not respected you before. But 
 now we will forget it. And for the rest, you need 
 have no fear that it will cast any shade over your 
 daughter's life. If she marries me, no one need 
 know, no one will ever ask, more than that she is 
 a Mexican." 
 
 " And so you are still determined to persevere 
 in your suit! " said Don Gilberto, regarding him 
 with a scrutiny both keen and curious. " I admire 
 your disinterestedness, although I know human na- 
 ture too well not to be aware how certainly you will 
 live to repent it. No, Mr. Ingraham, just as I saw 
 clearly that the risk was too great to allow you to 
 marry Carmen in ignorance of my identity, so I 
 tell you that I can not expose her to such a risk as 
 you propose. I will take for granted that you are 
 one man in a million, that you would neither regret 
 the step should you take it, nor allow her to per- 
 ceive that you regretted it. But there would still 
 remain all the chances of discovery which lie in wait 
 for every human secret, generally when least appre- 
 hended. I do not wish my daughter either to learn 
 who and what I am, nor yet to be hopelessly sep- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 133 
 
 arated from me by living in a country which I can 
 never enter. Long ago I endeavoured to forget 
 that it had ever been my country, long ago I identi- 
 fied myself with Mexico and Mexicans, and now 
 that I have the opportunity for an alliance which 
 will be of the greatest benefit to me here, where all 
 my interests lie, do you think that I shall resign it 
 for the sake of any inducement that you can offer? 
 No, Mr. Ingraham, millionaire though you may be, 
 I tell you once for all — No ! " 
 
 He spoke with an energy which it was impossi- 
 ble to doubt or mistake. The two looked at each 
 other in silence for a moment, each reading inflexi- 
 ble resolution in the other's face. Then said In- 
 graham, sternly — 
 
 " Your decision is based on ruthless selfishness. 
 Your daughter's happiness does not enter into your 
 consideration at all." 
 
 " My daughter's happiness does enter into my 
 consideration," returned Don Gilberto. " Apart 
 from what I have told you, and the dangers with 
 which it would menace her life, she will be much 
 happier with one of her own people than with a fo'r- 
 eigner. I, who know her, know this." 
 
 "And I am determined that she shall decide 
 that for herself," said Ingraham. " I go at once to 
 demand of Don Luis the fulfilment of the promise 
 which he gave me last night." 
 
 "Stay!" said Don Gilberto, as the speaker 
 turned sharply away. "It is unnecessary to go to 
 Don Luis. He has already spoken of such a pledge 
 to me. But I did not hold myself bound by what 
 he had promised, and I sought you, hoping that I 
 had it in my power to induce you to hear reason 
 and withdraw your suit. If you persist in pressing 
 
134 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 it despite my opposition, I have no alternative but 
 to respect the wishes of Don Luis and let my daugh- 
 ter herself assure you whether or not she is an obedi- 
 ent child." 
 
 " You will not attempt to influence her by tell- 
 ing her what you have told me?" demanded In- 
 graham, with sudden apprehension. 
 
 " No," rephed the other, coldly. " I shall sim- 
 ply tell her of the suit of Don Luis sind of my wishes. 
 That should be enough. Unless I am greatly mis- 
 taken in her, it will be enough." 
 
 " I do not think that you know very much about 
 her," said Ingraham, remembering the transforma- 
 tion in the girl since her father had seen her last, the 
 revelations of her inner, unsuspected self which she 
 had made to him and him alone. " But let me ask 
 a favour," he added, abruptly. " Tell her nothing 
 of my wealth. I have no fear that such a considera- 
 tion would weigh with her, but, as a proof to others 
 of what I do not doubt, I should prefer for her to 
 remain in ignorance of it until she has given her 
 decision." 
 
 A quick flash as of, unexpected gratification ap- 
 peared in the eyes of Don Gilberto ; but he replied, 
 briefly, " It shall be as you wish. And now we had 
 better descend." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It was not until they had descended to the foot 
 of the mountain and were entering on the road 
 through the village that the silence which had lasted 
 between the two men since they left the Cerro de 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 135 
 
 las Gruces was broken. Then Ingraham suddenly 
 turned to Don Gilberto. 
 
 " Have you seen your daughter since your ar- 
 rival? " he asked. 
 
 " No," was the reply. " I saw only Don Luis. 
 Afterward I went in search of you. Before meet- 
 ing my daughter, I wished to decide what I should 
 tell her." • 
 
 " And after you have told her what you desire, 
 how soon can I hope to see her?" Ingraham in- 
 quired. 
 
 " That depends upon herself," the other respond- 
 ed, adding, with a slightly sarcastic intonation, " She 
 may require a little time to consider such an un- 
 precedented event in her life as two proposals at 
 once." 
 
 To this remark Ingraham made no reply, and 
 silence lasted again until they were entering under 
 the great archway of the casa grande, when, paus- 
 ing for an instant, he said, cer.emoniously, " I rely 
 upon your kindness to let me know at what time 
 Dona Carmen will see me," and then passed quick- 
 ly on. 
 
 Don Gilberto made no effort to detain or over- 
 take him. Probably he was glad to be relieved of 
 the society of the man to whom he had felt forced 
 to reveal himself. He lingered in the doorway to 
 exchange a greeting with the administrador, who 
 rose from one of the benches and had apparently 
 not seen him before. Ingraham left them patting 
 each other on the back, and took his way alone up 
 the wide stairway to the second story. 
 
 As his foot touched the corridor above, a sud- 
 den longing seized him to see his picture. It was 
 the first time that he had felt the faintest inclination 
 
136 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 to approach or look upon it since he had thrown 
 down his brushes in the fit of disgust which had 
 overtaken him the day before. 3ut now, not only 
 did the impulse of the artist rise and draw him pow- 
 erfully toward it, but tlie passion of the lover drew 
 him more powerfully still. It was Carmen — Car- 
 men herself, Carmen as he alone had possessed in- 
 sight enough to see her — whom he had .placed on 
 that canvas, and, failing the living Carmen, even 
 the shadow of her would be like wine to his heart. 
 So, without an instant's delay he went to the paint- 
 ing-room, which, as has already been said, was on 
 a second court. When he reached the door, he 
 found, to his surprise, that it was sHghtly ajar. It 
 yielded noiselessly to his touch, and, entering, he 
 beheld a sight which stayed him motionless -on the 
 threshold. 
 
 He had come to see the shadow of Carmen, and, 
 instead, the reality was before him — the living Car- 
 men as he had seen her when she came to him first 
 in the sala, and as he had painted her day after day, 
 while her loveliness, unknown to himself, sank into 
 his heart and took possession of his being. Even 
 as on that first never-to-be-forgotten day, a rich sun- 
 set radiance, thrown upon some clouds in the east, 
 which had caught and reflected the dying splendour 
 of the sun, filled the room, fell over the Velasquez 
 so that the wonderful figure upon it seemed glow- 
 ing with more than the tints of life, and enveloped 
 in a golden atmosphere the same figure, transformed 
 to breathing existence before it. For, strange to 
 say, Carmen was arrayed in the rich robes which 
 heretofore she had worn only for her sittings, and as 
 she stood in front of the portrait of the Marquesa, 
 in the same attitude, wearing the same expression 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 137 
 
 of superb pride, and meeting the pictured eyes with 
 a gaze which seemed to say, "Behold me!" the 
 likeness between the two was more startling and 
 more exact than Ingraham had ever before beheld 
 it. He did not know how long he stood spellbound 
 by the singular scene, for he could not resist the im- 
 pression that some mysterious influence was pass- 
 ing between the picture and the girl, but when he 
 advanced the first sound of his step roused Carmen, 
 and she turned. As her eyes, full of brilliant light, 
 met his, a thrill passed through him; he quickened 
 his steps, and the next moment would, without other 
 greeting, have taken her into his arms — had she not 
 spoken. 
 
 But her words stopped him — her words, and an 
 expression on her face which told him that she was 
 absorbed in some feeKng which he did not share. 
 '■ Do you think me mad? " she asked, with a smile. 
 " It is strange that I should be here alone, and in 
 this dress. But no other seemed fitting in which to 
 come to her with my news. I felt that I could only 
 wear this when I came to tell her that it has come 
 to pass that I am to fill her place." 
 
 A cold chill struck to Ingraham's heart. He 
 put out his hand and unconsciously grasped for sup- 
 port the easel on which his own picture stood. And 
 yet — so quick is thought — ^he had time to say to 
 himself that it must be that he mistook her meaning, 
 in the scarcely appreciable interval before he said — 
 
 " To fill her place! You mean " 
 
 " Ah, I forget! It is not likely that you would 
 know what I mean," she answered, quickly, as he 
 paused. " You would never think of it as possible, 
 but it is nevertheless true that Don Luis wishes me 
 to marry him." 
 
138 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 " Carmen! " It was a cry, half stern, half an- 
 guished, that seemed wrung from the very depths 
 of the man's nature. " Are you indeed mad? What 
 are Don Luis and his offer to you? Last night — 
 can it be that you have forgotten that last night you 
 promised to marry me? " 
 
 A change came over her face; the absorbed look 
 passed away, and she seemed suddenly to wake to 
 a recollection that had almost vanished. Yet the 
 proud aspect — the very aspect of the Marquesa — 
 did not leave her, and it was with the air and man- 
 ner of a great lady, rather than of Carmen Rosa, that 
 she spoke. 
 
 " Seiior," she said, gravely, " you must forgive 
 me. I had indeed forgotten. Last night seems very 
 far away; and yet I now recall that when you spoke 
 to me of love I promised to try and love you. I 
 thought then that it might be that you, who have 
 done so much for me, were destined to do more, 
 to open the door for me into life. But I have learned 
 since that I was mistaken. It has all had a different 
 meaning. I was wakened, I was made to assume 
 her very being and nature " — she looked toward 
 the portrait — " in order that I might be fitted to 
 take her place. And there, seiior, is where I be- 
 long." 
 
 The simplicity and dignity of these words — ^the 
 utter unconsciousness of any claim on his part, or 
 any faithlessness toward him — rendered Ingraham 
 for a moment speechless. To a woman who had 
 deceived him, who had practised any guile of co- 
 quetry, above all to one who, in modern parlance, 
 " threw him over " for a better match, he would have 
 known well what to say. But he recognised, by an 
 instinct too fine to mislead, that this woman was 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 139 
 
 innocent of any of these things — so absolutely in- 
 nocent that it did not even occur to her to defend 
 or excuse herself. She stated the case as it appeared 
 to her inner consciousness, and there left it with 
 proud composure. A terrible conviction of the use- 
 lessness of protest seemed borne to him in every 
 tone of her voice, yet to restrain appeal was impos- 
 sible. 
 
 " Carmen," he cried, " how is such a change as 
 this credible? Last night you came to me, last night 
 you owned that it was true that you belonged to me 
 by claims and rights which have not altered, last 
 night you promised to love me, to go with me into 
 the world ! And now — what spell has been cast upon 
 you, that you coolly tell me you have forgotten all 
 this, and that you will marry Don Luis? Can it be 
 that you love him?" 
 
 Her glance continued to meet his own, with no 
 faltering or drooping of lids, as she answered, with- 
 out an instant's hesitation — 
 
 " Last night, seiior, I told you that I had neither 
 thought nor known anything of what you call love. 
 But the same feeling which makes me sure that I 
 shall marry Don Luis makes me also sure that I 
 shall love him." 
 
 Then Ingraham threw back his head and laughed 
 aloud. It was not a pleasant sound as it woke the 
 echoes of the great empty chamber, that laugh; it 
 was, rather, a sound so harsh and mirthless as to 
 cause a shudder. Then, turning abruptly, he walked 
 away. 
 
 The tumult of his feelings was indescribable. 
 The scene with Don Luis, the interview with Don 
 Gilberto, rose before his mental vision, and he could 
 have laughed again, in the bitterness of his soul, at 
 
140 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 the certainty of success which had possessed him, 
 and which he had displayed on both occasions. 
 He had been sure that his passion held a power to 
 rouse response — nay, that it had already roused it 
 — and that he, and no other, was the knight who, 
 having found and wakened, should bear away the 
 enchanted princess. Now it appeared that his part 
 had only been to find and waken her for the benefit 
 of another man — which was a novel ending of the 
 fairy-tale, that at another time might have excited 
 a grim sense of amusement. But the sense of 
 amusement was dormant within him at this moment. 
 Torn by love, anger, and disappointment, he sud- 
 denly turned again and looked at Carmen from the 
 other side of the room. The brief sunset glow was 
 fading, but all of the radiance which remained 
 seemed to centre and linger upon her figure — the 
 figure which he now saw upon his own canvas not 
 less perfectly reproduced than upon that of Velas- 
 quez — and the sight of it, of the surpassing beauty, 
 majesty, and grace which were not to be his, al- 
 though he alone had discovered them, wrung from 
 him another passionate cry. 
 
 " Carmen," he said, as he advanced once more 
 toward her, " you are mine! No one else has any 
 right to you. Look at that picture by your side, 
 the picture which is the work of my hand: must I 
 remind you again that you are almost as much the 
 work of my hand as it is? But for that picture, 
 would you be standing there, regal as the Marquesa ' 
 herself in your beauty, wearing her robes? Would 
 the man who never thought of you but as a poor 
 dependant, a drudge in his house, ever have looked 
 at you, or recognised what you are, had I not painted 
 it there so that even his blindness saw ? And yet you 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 141 
 
 would forsake me for him! Carmen, it is impossi- 
 ble! I will never permit it! " 
 
 " I think, seiior," she said, with the same air of 
 proud calmness, " that you will not be able to pre- 
 vent it, for, though it is true, all that you have said 
 of your picture, and though I am sorry to grieve 
 you, neither of these things can change what must 
 be. You will think me fanciful and superstitious, 
 perhaps, but to you alone have I ever spoken of the 
 strange influence which she" — her eyes again 
 sought the portrait of the Marquesa — " has always 
 exerted over me, so it may be that you will under- 
 stand when I tell you that I am sure she has willed 
 this thing, and that you have been but an instrument 
 in bringing it about." 
 
 It is not too much to say that at this moment 
 Ingraham would have liked nothing better than to 
 be able to tear the priceless Velasquez from its frame 
 and cut it into a hundred fragments. His exaspera- 
 tion, his sense of being baffled by an influence in- 
 tangible and absurd, yet against which he could 
 not hope to prevail, rendered him for a brief space 
 silent. Fool that he had been, he said to himself, 
 to forget the picture and the spell it had always 
 thrown over the girl's fancy — a. spell which he had 
 in countless ways encouraged because it aided in 
 developing the remarkable likeness between the 
 dead ancestress and the living descendant. Now, 
 like many another experimenter, he found his own 
 experiment turned against him. The influence of 
 the picture was now opposed to his own, and the 
 picture triumphed. He looked at the brilliant 
 changeless face as if it had been that of a living 
 enemy, and, like a living enemy, it seemed with its 
 air of disdain to mock what he suffered. " All that 
 
142 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 you have accomplished has been to deepen my hold 
 upon the girl," it appeared to say. " Nothing that 
 you can do will have power to loosen it." These 
 fancies were indeed but the expression of his sense 
 of despair. Against Don Luis alone, taken simply 
 as a man, he might have been able to fight; but 
 against Don Luis as the lord of Las Cruces, the one 
 person in the world who had power to put Carmen 
 in the place of the woman who had so long domi- 
 nated her imagination, he felt that he had no arms 
 which could avail. And yet once more he strove 
 to produce an impression upon her. 
 
 " It is impossible," he said, " that you can be in 
 earnest in thinking that this — this bit of canvas and 
 paint can exercise any influente over you or your 
 destiny! You must know that such a belief is wild- 
 est superstition. You must feel that its sole influ- 
 ence has lain in your own imagination, which, lov- 
 ing all things that your nature calls for, and finding 
 none of them in your narrow, colourless life, dwelt 
 persistently upon the life of this woman who, be- 
 fore she forfeited, possessed them all. Her story 
 has been to you like a drama — the only one you 
 have ever known — and she has been the heroine 
 of all your dreams. I, fool that I was, have deep- 
 ened this feeling by painting you in her guise, by 
 keeping her image continually before you, so that 
 imaginations about her have wrought more deeply 
 into your consciousness. But, for God's sake, put 
 aside this fancy, which borders on madness, and be- 
 lieve that your own will, not that of a woman long 
 dead, can make or mar your life! Carmen, I am 
 pleading for you as well as for myself I But for this 
 accursed picture, and the ideas with which it has 
 filled your mind, you would never dream of marrying 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 143 
 
 Don Luis. He is old enough to be your father; he 
 does not gpive you, as I do, the first passionate love 
 of a heart which is all yours. Nor can he give you 
 the things of the world as I can give them. I did not 
 mean to tell you, but wealth, great wealth, is mine. 
 Have you no idea of all that wealth can do? I speak 
 of this, not to tempt you with mercenary consid- 
 erations, but to implore you to reflect before you 
 ignorantly close upon yourself the door of a wider 
 life, more rich, more free, than you can even imag- 
 ine. Ah! " — it was a very cry of impotent passion 
 — " if I could but make you understand what I offer 
 you! Above all, if you could know what depth 
 of love — love which has stood a test greater than 
 I ever dreamed possible — is in my heart, you would 
 throw behind you forever your dreams of the Mar- 
 quesa, and come again to my arms — as you came 
 last night! " 
 
 With a faint, wild hope he held them out, but 
 they sank down as he saw that he had not moved 
 her in the least. The superb composure, which 
 seemed to belong to her as naturally as the rich 
 dress she wpre, did not change. She still stood be- 
 fore him, like a beautiful picture — ^like the beauti- 
 ful picture which he now felt he hated with all his 
 heart — ^while the last rays of the dying sunset kindled 
 her hair to brightest gold. But in her eyes gathered 
 'a softness such as they had not known before, and 
 when she spoke her voice was very sweet as well 
 as grave: 
 
 " For that love, seiior, and for all else that you 
 offer me, I thank you from my heart. I am sorry 
 if I have disappointed, if you think that I have de- 
 ceived, you. But last night I did not know. I 
 meant all that I said to you — forgive me if I do not 
 
144 "^^^ PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 remember clearly what it was — but I do not think 
 that I understood. When Don Luis came and 
 spoke, however, ah, then I understood. Then I 
 knew that I had been born for this — ^to take her 
 place, to rule as mistress where she lived a prisoner, 
 to be loved and trusted where she was cruelly 
 judged. And when I speak in this manner it is not 
 from foolish superstition. I know well that the pic- 
 ture is, as you say, a thing of canvas and paint. So 
 is mine, which you have painted here; but when 
 you look at it in the time to come, you will feel as 
 if Carmen were before you, and it will have power 
 to take your thoughts away from your surroundings 
 and lead them back to this old Mexican house. And 
 if one picture has such Ufe, why not another? Why 
 I should think certain thoughts and feel certain feel- 
 ings when I look at that portrait, I do not know; 
 but I could sooner doubt my existence than doubt 
 that it is so. And besides, seiior, the Hfe which I 
 have chosen is a life I understand: the knowledge 
 of it is born in me, like the blood in my veins. But 
 your life I should not understand. I should be with 
 you like a plant torn from its native soil. So it is 
 well that you go away to your own people and forget 
 me. As for me, I shall never forget the service 
 which you have done me, and I will remember you 
 in my prayers when I am old, and think how dif- 
 ferent my life might have been had you not come 
 to Las Cruces and painted my picture. But for the 
 rest, I shall marry Don Luis. And so — adios, 
 seiior! " 
 
 " Well, Mr. Ingraham, are you satisfied? " 
 It was the voice of Don Gilberto from the door- 
 way out of which Carmen had passed — how long 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS, CRUCES. 145 
 
 before, Ingraham did not know. He made no reply, 
 and the speaker advanced into the room, now filled 
 with the dusk of twilight, to discover what was the 
 meaning of this silence and of a singular continu- 
 ous sound behind the easel where Ingraham stood. 
 When he reached the spot he uttered a great ex- 
 clamation. 
 
 The picture of Carmen hung in shreds from its 
 frame. 
 
PART II. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The through train from the northern border 
 was steadily rushing along the great plateau of Mex- 
 ico, and, having left Leon behind, had entered upon 
 the wide plain which extends southward for many 
 a league, when one of two travellers who were seated 
 together in the smoking-room of the Pullman re- 
 marked, as he glanced over a newspaper in his 
 hand — 
 
 " It seems that we shall find Mexico very much 
 en fHe when we reach there to-morrow." 
 
 The speaker, a tall blond young man, in his 
 clothes of London cut might by a careless glance 
 have been taken for an Englishman, but closer ob- 
 servation would have perceived, beneath a super- 
 ficial resemblance, certain differences — especially 
 a greater alertness of eye and manner — ^which mark 
 the American type of the transplanted Anglo-Saxon. 
 Education and long residence abroad had, however, 
 approximated Leslie Brooke, without any conscious 
 attempt at imitation, very closely to that English 
 model which it is the exceedingly conscious efifort 
 of a number of his countrymen to imitate, besides 
 giving him a certain cosmopolitan habit of mind 
 which was agreeably reflected in his ease of manner. 
 
 The man whom he addressed belonged evi- 
 146 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 147 
 
 dently to a different race. Dark, slender, graceful, 
 he would, to one unacquainted with the minor dif- 
 ferences of national type, have passed for a native 
 of any country of Latin Europe, but he was in fact 
 a Mexican of Spanish blood and high social rank. 
 Having been for some time attached to the Mexican 
 legation in Washington, he spoke English fluently, 
 and at once responded to the remark of his compan- 
 ion — 
 
 " Oh, very much so indeed. It is the inaugura- 
 tion of the President; and since we have seldom 
 had the pleasure, thus far in our history, pf inaugu- 
 rating a President peaceably, the occasion seems to 
 call for some brilliancy of celebration. You are for- 
 tunate in reaching Mexico just at this time." 
 
 " I am not sure of that," observed Brooke, 
 doubtfully. " Occasions of public celebration are 
 not always the best times for reaching a strange 
 city. One is likely, for example, to have difficulty 
 in securing good quarters." 
 
 " I think not," said the young Mexican. " You 
 must not imagine that this is like the inaugurations 
 in Washington, when a vast crowd from the prov- 
 inces flock to the capital. There will be no such rush 
 of people to Mexico. A few notables from the dif- 
 ferent States will come — a. few governors and gener- 
 als — ^but no one else. The people are indifferent, for 
 you must remember that the election of a President 
 with us does not, as with you, represent the triumph 
 of a party after a heated popular contest, but rather 
 the result of a triumph that was won years ago on 
 the battle-field, and which is therefore regarded as 
 entirely a foregone conclusion." 
 
 " A diplomatic way of stating that as a popular 
 election it is a farce," said the American, smiling. 
 
148 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 " But, one is inclined to ask, why the farce? Why 
 should not General Diaz declare himself dictator 
 for life,, and so dispense with a recurring form of 
 election that means nothing? " 
 
 " Because forms are useful," replied the other, 
 sententiously. " If General Diaz proclaimed himself 
 dictator, he would at once have a revolution on his 
 hands. The people might not care, but his rivals 
 for power would, and he is not Hkely to be guilty 
 of the folly of putting a weapon into their hands. But 
 instead of discussing the political system of our 
 country, let me ask if your friend and yourself would 
 not like to attend the ball which will be given in 
 honour of the President to-morrow night. I have 
 hastened my journey in order to reach Mexico in 
 time for it, and I can easily obtain cards for you if 
 you care to attend." 
 
 " Thanks, you are very kind," responded Brooke, 
 who was still young enough to find the suggestion 
 of a ball attractive. " I shall be delighted to do so, 
 but I can't answer for my friend, who is rather blasS 
 with regard to balls, as in fact to most matters. But 
 here he comes to answer for himself." 
 
 At the door of the smoking-room there' indeed 
 appeared at this moment a man of very quiet and 
 unassuming aspect, but in whom a person of fine 
 perception would have detected unmistakable signs 
 of distinction. A certain repose of manner, without 
 the faintest shade of self-assertion, spoke of the con- 
 fidence of assured position and the habit of receiv- 
 ing from others a consideration which it was not 
 necessary to claim, while his face possessed in strik- 
 ing degree the charm of refinement and intelligence, 
 and the clear gray eyes had the penetrating regard 
 of one who was an artist, a thinker, and perhaps 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 149 
 
 somewhat of a dreamer besides. There had been 
 a time when, despite the fact that Fortune had made 
 him so rich a man that he was deprived of the most 
 common and potent of all incentives to exertion, 
 Ralph Ingraham had seemed to take as much in- 
 terest in the pursuit of art as if his prospect of daily 
 bread hung upon the success of his labours. But 
 this ardour — as was only to be expected, people 
 said — had completely died out. He, who once ap- 
 peared to like nothing better than to see life witli 
 the eyes of a painter and to wander through strange 
 lands with his easel and white umbrella as unpre- 
 tendingly as any vagrant son of the Bohemia he 
 loved, had suddenly thrown art aside, as if it were 
 but a toy of fancy instead of a noble and lasting 
 reality, and if he had touched brush or pencil for 
 several years past no one was aware of the fact. At 
 present he had just returned to America from a 
 long sojourn in Europe, and it was owing to the 
 eager solicitation of his friend Leslie Brooke — for 
 friends they were, although on a basis of mutual 
 toleration rather than mutual sympathy — ^that he 
 had consented to accompany the latter to Mexico. . 
 At least he told Brooke, and perhaps himself, that 
 this was the case. But deep in his inner conscious- 
 ness he knew that there were other causes draw- 
 ing him back to this land, which possessed associa- 
 tions for him the lasting strength and reality of 
 which he had a passionate desire to test. 
 
 Catching Brooke's last words above the rattle 
 of the train, he looked at that gentleman inquiringly 
 as he dropped into a seat. " What is it that I have 
 come in time to answer? " he asked. 
 
 " Whether you care to attend a ball to be given 
 in Mexico to-morrow night in honour of the inaugu- 
 
I50 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 ration of President Diaz," Brooke replied. " Seiior 
 Rivera offers to procure invitations for us." 
 
 "Seiior Rivera is most kind," said Ingraham.with 
 a ceremonious inclination toward the young Mexi- 
 can. " Since you have a strong desire to see some- 
 thing of social life in Mexico, I presume that you 
 have accepted his offer without hesitation." 
 
 " For myself, yes," Brooke returned. " But I 
 was remarking as you entered that I could not an- 
 swer for you, as you have developed a great capac- 
 ity of being bored by social functions." 
 
 " Generally speaking, true," Ingraham assented. 
 " But in this instance I think it possible that I might 
 not be bored, since my acquaintances in Mexico 
 are few, and I should only be a looker-on, pleasing 
 my eyes by a brilliant spectacle as long as it amused 
 me, and at Hberty to retire when it ceased to do so." 
 
 " There would be no necessity, apart from your 
 inclination, why you should be only a looker-on," 
 observed Sefior Rivera, with a greater deference 
 of manner than he had exhibited in talking to 
 Brooke. " It would give me great pleasure to pre- 
 sent you to the best people of Mexico. In offering 
 cards of invitation to Mr. Brooke, I had no inten- 
 tion of limiting my services merely to that." 
 
 Again Ingraham bowed. " You recall to me, 
 senor," he said, " the many acts of courtesy which 
 I experienced in my former visit to your country. 
 I perceive that it is only necessary to re-enter Mex- 
 ico in order to experience the same courtesy again. 
 It would be churlish to decline your kindness. We 
 shall be happy to accept the friendly services which 
 I am aware that you are so well qualified to render." 
 
 " I have certainly the pleasure of knowing every- 
 body in Mexico worth knowing," said the young 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 151 
 
 attache, twisting the upward-curling ends of his 
 carefully tended moustache with a slight air of cox- 
 combry. " It is true that I have been out of the 
 country for several years, but society with us 
 changes little. The families which hold social su- 
 premacy are always the same." 
 
 " When I was in Mexico several years ago," 
 said Ingraham, in a reminiscent manner, " I chanced 
 to meet the representative of one of your old fami- 
 lies — Don Luis Fernandez del Valle, of Michoacan. 
 Do you know him? " 
 
 " Every one knows the Fernandez del Valle," 
 replied Rivera. " They are one of the oldest fami- 
 lies in the country. But they suffered great losses 
 in the revolutions, and Don Luis has buried him- 
 self for years on his hacienda in Michoacan." 
 
 " It was at his hacienda that I met him," said 
 Ingraham. " He proved himself a very gracious 
 host as well as fine gentleman. At that time I heard 
 that he had political aspirations, had been to Mexico 
 and, it was understood, offered his support to the 
 ruling powers. I fancied he would have held some 
 official position before this." 
 
 " Now that you speak of it," said^the other, knit- 
 ting his dark, slender brows with an effort of recol- 
 lection, " I recall having heard something of the 
 same kind; but these things come to one's ears 
 vaguely when one is far from home. " Ah ! " — he 
 made a sudden exclamation — " how could I forget! 
 Don Luis Fernandez del Valle is at this time Senator 
 from Michoacan. I now remember perfectly the 
 announcement." 
 
 " He is then in Mexico at the present time? " 
 
 " Most probably; I should think Certainly." 
 
 " Ah! " said Ingraham. His interest in the sub- 
 
152 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 ject seemed to end at this point. He turned liis head 
 and gazed meditatively through the window beside 
 him, appearing to become absorbed in contempla- 
 tion of the scene without. 
 
 It was a scene which mighi well have absorbed 
 the attention of any one. Upon the altar of the west 
 a gorgeous sunset flamed like a sacrificial fire — a 
 bed of deepest crimson, flecked and dashed with 
 burning gold — from which a great radiance flowed 
 over the wide plain, bounded on each side by moun- 
 tains that in the transfiguring glow became as 
 dream-like heights of carven amethyst. The vast 
 stretch of verdant land, the feathery trees, the 
 glimpses here and there of shining water, and the 
 groups passing along the white, level roads — san- 
 dalled, sarape-draped men, veiled women riding 
 burros, great wooden carts drawn by oxen, horse- 
 men who looked as if they had ridden booted and 
 spurred out of a romance — all were bathed in a flood 
 of light which pervaded the whole atmosphere and 
 lent to the picture an almost unearthly charm. It 
 was a typical Mexican scene, and while Ingraham 
 gazed he felt as if all intervening memories rolled 
 away, and as if it had been but yesterday that his 
 eyes rested on these vast plains which suggest all 
 the primitive drama of human history, where the 
 harvests of the world might be reaped, or the armies 
 of the world marshalled, on these majestic sierras, 
 so heavenly in the beauty of their distant tints, so 
 rugged and full of awe when approached, on these 
 walled towns with their towers of slender grace and 
 Oriental domes, standing against an exquisite back- 
 ground of violet hills, on these idyllic stretches of 
 field and pasture, and the figures full of pictuesque 
 colour which move across them. All these things 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 153 
 
 appeared to him as they must appear to every one 
 who, having seen them once, returns after long ab- 
 sence to this land, which is unchanging as the 
 changeless East, like things famiUar as the memo- 
 ries of infancy — familiar, too, not from personal ob- 
 servation alone, but because they touch subtle 
 chords of association with all that we have uncon- 
 sciously dreamed of the history and poetry of the 
 past. 
 
 The associations that dwelt for Ingraham in 
 every line of the scene were, however, stronger even 
 than this. For what he saw was not so much the 
 sunset-steeped plain and purple mountains that lay 
 before his actual vision, ,as the fortress-like walls 
 of an ancient house, its courts, corridors, rooms — 
 a sudden flood of radiance upon a picture every line 
 and tint of which rose before him as if burned into 
 his memory, and a girl in an antique costume, yet 
 fresh in her beauty as an opening rose, standing 
 before the portrait, as if its original had been re- 
 stored to life after long centuries of death. It is im- 
 possible to conceive any reality of the present more 
 vivid than this recollection of the past was to him, 
 as he looked out over the Mexican hills and plains. 
 And yet he had dreamed that this memory had lost 
 its keenness with the lapse of time, and that the epi- 
 sode in his life which it recalled, overlaid by later 
 interests, had grown dim! But, whether "desper- 
 ately wicked" or not, there is surely nothing on 
 earth more deceitful than the human heart. Who 
 has not fondly imagined that he had forgotten or 
 lived down some past pain, until, roused by a chance 
 touch into vivid life again, it has proved as power- 
 ful to wound as in thie first dark hour of agony? 
 So it was with Ingraham now. The edifice of for- 
 
154 "T^^ PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 getfulness in which he had fancied himself secure, 
 dropped around him like a shattered house of cards, 
 and the awakened past seized upon him again with 
 a force which startled and dismayed him. " My 
 God! " he said to himself, as one who is face to face 
 with a reality which can not be evaded, " have I for- 
 gotten nothing f Is that folly never to be lived down? 
 Then it is well that I have come back. When mem- 
 ory is so persistent, there is but one heroic cure — 
 to bring it in contact with reality. Only so can one 
 learn how much of what assumes to be memory is 
 but imagination. For I might believe that there 
 was some infernal magic in that picture, so strong 
 is the spell that, through it, has been cast upon me, 
 if I did not know that the chief spell is in my own 
 fancy. But I am aware of the tricks my fancy can 
 play, and I have long been sure that it was tricking 
 me then, as it is tricking me now in this insane folly 
 of remembrance. I must prove this to myself be- 
 yond a possibility of doubt, and there is only one 
 way pf proving it — to see again, at any cost, the 
 woman who has bewitched me. When I see hgr, 
 when I learn, as I surely shall learn, of what com- 
 monplace material is formed the creature who 
 seemed to me so wonderful, the phantom of my 
 imagination will drop down dead and trouble me 
 no more. It is a remedy which has never failed; 
 and I am confident that it will not fail me now." 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 155 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Upon my word," said Leslie Brooke, in a tone 
 of mingled surprise and admiration, " this is very 
 brilliant ! One might fancy one's self at a state ball 
 in Europe. How well these people seem to under- 
 stand doing this sort of thing! " 
 
 " And how well these fine old Mexican build- 
 ings lend themselves to decoration!" said In- 
 graham, as he glanced around the stately ball-room 
 into which the great court of the ancient custom- 
 house had been transformed, and which, with its 
 draperies, paintings, and masses of tropical plants, 
 its floods of light and perfume and flowers, made 
 an effective setting for the brilliant throng that filled 
 it — an exceedingly well-dressed and well-mannered 
 throng, as Brooke did not fail to observe with his 
 quick and socially practised eye. The hour was 
 late, the Presidential party had arrived, and the 
 dancing was well under way, while the air seemed 
 pulsating with the floods of music that rose and fell 
 unceasingly from the two orchestras that played 
 alternately. 
 
 Pausing near one of the massive columns which, 
 emblazoned with the names of the battles won by 
 General Diaz, surrounded the apartment, the two 
 strangers stood for some time watching the gay 
 scene with an interest which for Brooke at least was 
 quickened by its novelty, when their late travelling 
 companion suddenly appeared beside them. 
 
 "At last!" he cried. "I have been looking 
 for you for an hour. But the crowd is so great it 
 is difficult to find any one. You wish to dance, of 
 
156 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES., 
 
 course. I shall be happy to introduce you to part- 
 ners. I have already obtained permission from sev- 
 eral ladies to introduce to theni two distinguished 
 Americans." 
 
 " One distinguished American will be happy to 
 profit by your kindness, I am sure," said Ingraham. 
 " But I must beg you to excuse me. I seldom dance, 
 and never in a crowd. I am sufficiently amused 
 in looking on." 
 
 " But if you do not desire to dance you will wish 
 to meet some of our noted people," said the friendly 
 attacM. " This is an excellent opportunity to do so. 
 I will present you to any one whom you care to 
 know — the President, the ministers, any of our dis- 
 tinguished generals, or any of the beautiful women, 
 of whom there are many present." 
 
 " My eyes assure me of that fact," replied In- 
 graham, gallantly; "but, for the present at least, 
 I am satisfied with admiring both beauty and valour 
 from a distance. Later, perhaps " 
 
 He paused abruptly, and so sudden and great 
 a change came over his face that his two companions 
 could only regard him for a moment with surprise, 
 while he stood motionless as if transfixed, staring 
 before him with the intent gaze of one who is struck 
 by the appearance of some object equally unex- 
 pected and startling. Both men instinctively fol- 
 lowed the direction of his eyes with their own, and 
 both forgot him at once, as their glance fell upon 
 the person who had evidently produced so strong 
 an effect upon him. 
 
 It was a woman of the most striking beauty, who, 
 leaning upon the arm of a tall and stately man, was 
 crossing at that moment the open space in the centre 
 of the floor. The crowd seemed to fall away on 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 157 
 
 each side, as if voluntarily yielding such homage 
 as is paid to royalty to one so royal of aspect, and 
 so royal, too, in manner; for, except among those 
 who from infancy have been accustomed to be cen- 
 tres of observation whenever and wherever they 
 appear, it would be difficult to find such superb com- 
 posure of bearing as distinguished this woman who 
 now walked like an empress across the crowded 
 room. Those who were able to turn their attention 
 from the beauty of her face, with its large dark eyes 
 and crown of golden hair, were struck by the fash- 
 ion of her dress, which, even in a day of revived 
 antiquities, was strikingly picturesque, as well as 
 magnificent, and had either been designed by a con- 
 summate artist in costume or copied closely from 
 some ancient picture, with only such modifications 
 as later fashion demanded. The rich brocade, the 
 rare old lace and shining jewels of which it was com- 
 posed, made an incomparable frame for a loveliness 
 that seemed also a revival of the past in its distinc- 
 tion and perfection. A low, irrepressible murmur 
 of admiration and inquiry was heard on all sides. 
 " Who is she? " those who did not know asked won- 
 deringly of others. Brooke, turning to Rivera, re- 
 peated the same question. 
 
 " What an astonishingly beautiful woman! " he 
 exclaimed. " Who is she? " 
 
 It was a moment before Rivera, gazing in curi- 
 ously compounded surprise and admiration, replied. 
 Then, " I have no idea," he said. " I never saw her 
 before, but that is General Herrera she is with. She 
 must be a stranger; some foreigner of rank, per- 
 haps. She can not be a Mexican of any position, 
 and of such appearance, and I not know her." 
 
 " She is, however, a Mexican," said Ingraham, 
 
158 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES.; 
 
 speaking very quietly. " She is the wife of Don 
 Luis Fernandez del Valle." 
 
 " Ah! " ejaculated the young man, drawing in 
 his breath with a quick sound as if of a suddenly 
 enlightened intelligence. " That explains it. I have 
 heard that Don Luis married some one obscure and 
 unknown, but of marvellous beauty. And it is true. 
 She is of a most marvellous beauty." 
 
 " She is like a Titian or Velasquez picture," said 
 Brooke. " There is nothing modern about her. She 
 has not only the general features and colouring, but 
 she has 'the grand air' — that air which all those 
 portraits possess, and which I have never seen in 
 equal degree in a living woman." 
 
 " It is the setting of the head upon the neck, the 
 grace and loveliness of the lines of the shoulders, 
 that give such a majesty of bearing," said Rivera, 
 critically. " And her costume — ^which is one of the 
 most beautiful in the room — produces in a degree 
 the effect of which you speak." 
 
 " No," said Brooke. " Her costume accords per- 
 fectly with her appearance, but does not produce it. 
 I have never seen a more striking instance of the 
 revival of a type. Here is Ingraham, who is an artist. 
 Ask him if I am not right." 
 
 " Perfectly right," replied Ingraham, with a 
 calmness which gave little insight into the tumult 
 of his thoughts. 
 
 And that they should have been in tumult was 
 not strange, for he had not only seen again with 
 startling unexpectedness the woman whose hold 
 upon his imagination had never relaxed since the 
 "old days at Las Cruces, but he had also seen, not the 
 Carmen whom he had then painted, but the Mar- 
 quesa of the Velasquez portrait — the Marquesa 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 159 
 
 more wonderfully revived into new and vivid life 
 than ever he had imagined to be possible. Strik- 
 ing as the resemblance between the two had been 
 in the past, there had also been an unlikeness which 
 he was successful enough to bring out upon his 
 canvas — the unlikeness of a girl whose deeper ex- 
 periences of life were yet to come and a woman who 
 had sounded the depths of all that life could give, 
 and in whose eyes there dwelt a great and imperious 
 disdain for the power which had wearied and the 
 passion which had betrayed. The man whose keen 
 glance first perceived both the likeness and the un- 
 likeness now saw as clearly that the unlikeness had 
 diminished and the likeness grown closer and deep- 
 er since he looked his last upon the girl standing 
 in the sunset light, clad in the dead woman's dress, 
 before her portrait. It was not Carmen but the por- 
 trait which he Tjeheld now, not only, as then, line 
 for line and tint for tint of physical resemblance, 
 but with the deeper spiritual likeness so much de- 
 veloped that its effect was almost to appall him. For 
 as he gazed there returned to him the old thrill of 
 superstition, of something that touched upon the 
 borders of mystery too deep for even conjecture 
 to pierce. He recalled Carmen's wild, persistent 
 fancy that some influence projected from the por- 
 trait or bequeathed by the original fashioned and 
 moulded her, whether she would or no, and he re- 
 membered also how the same influence had seemed 
 to fall upon himself when he first looked upon that 
 picture of which the living copy now passed before 
 him. 
 
 He was roused from these thoughts by Rivera, 
 who was observing him rather curiously. " Since 
 Mr. Ingraham knows Don Luis Fernandez del 
 
l6o THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 Valle," he said, " I infer that he is also acquainted 
 with this lady." 
 
 " I had the pleasure of knowing her before she 
 became the wife of Don Luis," Ingraham replied. 
 " But since her marriage I have never seen her until 
 to-night." 
 
 " But you will of course lose no time in renew- 
 ing your acquaintance with her," suggested Brooke, 
 " and in asking permission to present a friend — 
 Senor Rivera will probably not object if I say two 
 friends?" 
 
 " On the contrary, I shall be deeply indebted if 
 Mr. Ingraham will be good enough to present me," 
 Rivera answered. 
 
 But Ingraham did not evince any disposition 
 to make himself of service to his friends in the man- 
 ner thus frankly indicated. To approach here, in 
 this garish ball-room filled with strains of music 
 and tread of dancers, the woman with whom he had 
 parted in the deepening twilight of Las Cruc.es with 
 words of despairing appeal, was, he felt, an impos- 
 sibility, a jarring discordance too great to be en- 
 countered. With a shade of stiffness, he said — 
 
 " I have no intention of recalling myself to the 
 recollection of this lady. I knew her under very 
 different circumstances, and it is possible that she 
 might not desire to recognise me, now that she is 
 transformed into a grande dame." 
 
 " You must have played a very modest role in 
 your acquaintance with her, if she could possibly 
 fancy herself too much elevated to recognise you," 
 said Rivera, smiling; " although it is true that sud- 
 den elevations have very often the effect of turning 
 the heads of those who experience them." 
 
 " You misunderstand me," said Ingraham, a 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. i6l 
 
 little haughtily. " Dona Carmen, I am sure, suffers^ 
 from no such intoxication. When I knew her she 
 was a young, uilformed girl, in an obscure social 
 position— although, as you are probably aware, she 
 is connected by blood with the Fernandez del Valle 
 — but even then one who was not blind could plainly 
 perceive that Nature had fitted her for a different 
 part in life. She only knew me, however, as a wan- 
 dering painter, and might readily think me pre- 
 sumptuous in claiming her acquaintance." 
 
 " Then the sooner she is undeceived and learns 
 who Mr. Ingraham is, the better," observed Rivera. 
 " And, as it chances, here comes Don Luis Fernan- 
 dez del Valle himself: I think I understood you to 
 say that you know him quite well? " 
 
 It seemed fate that took the matter out of In- 
 graham's hands. It was indeed Don Luis, hand- 
 some and distinguished as of old, who advanced 
 directly toward them, at the moment. Seeing that 
 to avoid the meeting was impossible, Ingraham, 
 calling to his aid the seff-command that at a critical 
 juncture rarely failed him, stepped forward and 
 greeted his former host. 
 
 There was not an instant's hesitation or con- 
 straint on the part of the Mexican. He looked sur- 
 prised but sincerely pleased, and returned the greet- 
 ing with the utmost cordiality. 
 
 " Sefior Ingraham ! " he exclaimed. " This is an 
 unexpected pleasure! I was not awaje that you 
 were in Mexico." 
 
 " I have only arrived to-day," Ingraham replied. 
 " It is my first return to the country since my visit 
 to Las Cruces. After several years in Europe, I 
 have come back to see if Mexico has lost any of its 
 charm by comparison with the older lands." 
 
1 62 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 " Since you have so recently arrived, it is too 
 early to ask whether or not you find the charm di- 
 minished," said Don Luis. " You will at least dis- 
 cover little change." 
 
 " It is possible change that one has most to fear 
 in Mexico," said Ingraham. " And that holds true 
 in all lands of one's friends when one returns after 
 long absence. Your family, seiior, I hope, that they 
 are well?" 
 
 " A thousand thanks, they are all very well. My 
 mother, with the older children, is at Las Cruces; 
 but I am at present residing in Mexico, with my 
 wife — you are aware that I am married to Doiia 
 Carmen Rosa? " 
 
 If that ancient rivalry which ended in victory 
 so complete for Don Luis found any expression 
 in these words, the finest observation could not have 
 detected it. Nor was the least trace of such recol- 
 lection apparent in the composure of Ingraham's 
 reply : 
 
 " I hope that it is not too late to offer my con- 
 gratulations. I had the pleasure of seeing Dona 
 Carmen a moment ago, as she passed across the 
 room. But permit me, sefior, to present to you my 
 friend Mr. Brooke, who has accompanied me to 
 Mexico. Sefior Rivera, who is attached to your 
 legation at Washington, you probably already 
 know." 
 
 " For myself personally," said Rivera, bowing, 
 " I can not claim recognition from Seiior Fernandez 
 del Valle, but my father and brothers are, I believe, 
 known to him." 
 
 " You are Don Alfredo," said Don Luis, extend- 
 ing his hand. " Your family are well known to me, 
 and yourself by name. Mr. Brooke, I am happy 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 163 
 
 to make your acquaintance, and trust that you may 
 like our country as well as your friend Senor In- 
 graham Ukes it. And now " — addressing the lat- 
 ter — " will you not come and renew your acquaint- 
 ance with my wife, who will be pleased to see one 
 whom we have so much reason to hold in remem- 
 brance and regard?" 
 
 If Ingraham smiled with the old, familiar sense 
 of somewhat grim amusement at these words and 
 the recollection of a peculiar indebtedness to him- 
 self which they implied, no one perceived the slight 
 play of his lips as he replied that nothing would give 
 him more pleasure than to pay his respects to Doiia 
 Carmen. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 It was as one in a dream that Ingraham found 
 himself approaching Carmen. He had so long en- 
 deavoured to reason himself into a belief that the 
 strange witchery which had taken possession of him 
 during his sojourn at Las Cruces had been in great 
 if not in chief degree the effect of his own imagina- 
 tion, that it was nothing less than a shock to behold 
 absolute proof of the reality of all he had seen and 
 felt during that unforgotten episode. One sight of 
 Carmen had been enough to convince him that his 
 imagination, great as he knew its power to be, had 
 not played him any trick. It had not exaggerated 
 her singular beauty, its wonderful resemblance to 
 the Velasquez portrait, nor its power over himself. 
 Of the last especially he had immediate evidence 
 in the remembered thrill which he had first known 
 
164 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 when standing before the portrait of the Marquesa 
 in the sola at Las Cruces. 
 
 Was it part of the old spell, or only due to the 
 new perception of her deepened likeness to the por- 
 trait, that he felt as if he were approaching the Mar- 
 quesa rather than Carmen, as he crossed the ball- 
 room by the side of Don Luis, with Brooke and 
 Rivera following, toward the spot where, like a 
 queen holding her court, stood the beautiful woman 
 whose appearance was the sensation of the evening, 
 surrounded by a group of men of the highest social 
 and political rank? 
 
 The group fell back a little as Don Luis drew 
 near and, addressing his wife, said, " Carmencita, I 
 bring you an old friend." 
 
 There was no need to say more, nor, in truth, 
 so much, for no sooner had her eyes fallen upon In- 
 graham than there came into them a great light of 
 pleasure and kindness — the kindness, absolutely un- 
 feignable, of friendly recollection. She made a quick 
 movement forward, and Ingraham forgot the Mar- 
 quesa in the charm which emanated from herself — 
 such a gracious and noble charm of manner and 
 speech as only a few women possess. 
 
 " Don Rafael! " she cried, using the old name 
 with an inflection of delight in her voice. " Qtic 
 felicidad! It gladdens me much to see you, sefior. 
 We did not know, you were in Mexico." 
 
 " It is but to-day that I am arrived, seiiora," In- 
 graham repeated, bowing over her hand, with a con- 
 sciousness of reUef. It was more than he had ex- 
 pected to be so frankly and cordially met and placed 
 at once upon the unquestioned footing of an old 
 friend, for it had not been merely an excuse when 
 he said to Rivera that she might not care to meet 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 165 
 
 again one who had known her in former obscurity, 
 and, he might have added, to whom she owed her 
 changed position. It is, unfortunately, not neces- 
 sary to be a misanthrope in order to be aware that 
 the last persons whom prosperity generally desires 
 to see are the witnesses of past adversity; and this 
 Ingraham felt might be peculiarly so in his case, 
 since there was no claim of ancient acquaintance or 
 friendship to lessen the remembrance of his associa- 
 tion with the transformation period of her life. That 
 any self-reproach for the part she had acted might 
 add to this possible reluctance to meet him, he did 
 not, however, for a moment imagine. He too thor- 
 oughly appreciated the fact that no such sentiment 
 had ever entered or could possibly enter her mind'_ 
 She had never comprehended that she stood in any 
 attitude toward him that called for excuse or self- 
 reproach. This he knew well, and, knowing it, en- 
 tertained no sense of injury for what he had long 
 since clearly recognised as an inevitable result. But 
 whether Carmen, wife of Don Luis, lady of Las Cru- 
 ces, and reigning beauty, would care to meet the 
 painter who had first seen beneath her humble rehozo 
 the likeness which made her what she now was, he 
 had conceived to be very doubtful, until the spon- 
 taneous warmth of her welcome set all doubts at 
 rest. No; there was no petty desire to forget and 
 ignore the past here, no turning away from the sense 
 of obligation, but rather a quick acknowledgment 
 which spoke eloquently of a nature at once noble 
 and sweet. 
 
 -These were the thoughts passing through his 
 mind and justifying him in his past judgment of this 
 woman, while he said a few words in explanation 
 of his presence in Mexico, and then drew back that 
 
l66 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 Brooke and Rivera might be presented by Don Luis. 
 And, watching Carmen as she received them, he 
 was forcibly struck by her manner, which could 
 have been no more full of fine self-possession, of a 
 stateliness a little grave perhaps for one so yoUng, 
 but perfect nevertheless, had she been indeed 
 that Marquesa whom Velasquez painted, and who 
 bore in her veins some of the proudest blood in 
 Spain. A sudden recollection of Don Gilberto 
 crossed Ingraham's mind, just as a young lady 
 flushed by dancing into singularly animated love- 
 liness came up on her partner's arm. 
 
 " Ah, Inesita," said Don Luis, turning to her, 
 " there is no need to ask if you are enjoying the 
 Evening. But you come in time to meet one of 
 whom you have often heard us speak. This is Seiior 
 Ingraham — or Don Rafael, as we knew him at Las 
 Cruces — with whom thy father is well acquainted. 
 And this, Senor Ingraham, is my sister-in-law, the 
 Sefiorita Doiia Ines Rosa." 
 
 As Ingraham bowed in acknowledgment of the 
 introduction, he said to himself that it was no won- 
 der the thought of Don Gilberto had come into his 
 mind even before he was conscious that his eyes 
 had fallen upon this girl who was so much like him. 
 But the likeness did not prevent the sefiorita from 
 being enchantingly pretty. It was a prettiness that 
 contained no trace of resemblance to her sister's 
 splendid beauty, but which possessed a quality of 
 seductiveness peculiar to itself, and a picturesque- 
 ness as great as that of a gypsy. Her slightly parted 
 lips of vivid scarlet showed pearl-white teeth, the 
 flush on her cheeks was like the tint of thepomegran- 
 ate, her dark eyes were shining with pleasure under 
 their sweeping lashes and beneath the perfectly pen- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 16/ 
 
 cilled brows, while her dark, clustering, curling hair 
 gave her small head the look of a Psyche. In fact, 
 there was something Psyche-like about her alto- 
 gether, a childlike joyousness,an air of absolute irre- 
 pressibility, which made Ingraham, whose percep- 
 tions and instincts often surprised himself by their 
 keeness, think, " Here is a creature the sole end 
 and aim of whose life is pleasure, and who to secure 
 what she desires at the moment would without hesi- 
 tation, although also without malice, sacrifice her 
 best friend." 
 
 Such natures, however, possess an attraction 
 which graver and more serious characters, weighted 
 with the moral sense in which they are deficient, 
 often lack, and Ingraham could not fail to perceive 
 this charm, this indefinable seductiveness, in Ines, 
 as she lifted her eyes, brimming with light, to his. 
 
 " I have often heard of you, seiior," she said. 
 " Carmencita and iliy papa have both talked much 
 of you. I am very glad to see you at last." 
 
 " I reciprocate the sentiment, sefiorita," replied 
 Ingraham, smiling. " But there is the difference 
 that while your satisfaction in seeing me is, I fear, 
 only a question of gratified curiosity, it could never 
 be other than a pleasure under any circumstances 
 to see you." 
 
 " You surprise me, seiior! " she cried, lifting her 
 dark, perfect brows. " I did not imagine that los 
 Americanos ever said things like that — ^pleasant, 
 graceful things that one likes to hear whether they 
 are exactly true or not. My papa is an Americano, 
 as you are aware, and I have always understood 
 from him that his countrymen are — how is it you 
 say? — ^very literal, very exact, ready to swear to 
 every word they utter." 
 
l68 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES, 
 
 " Your papa, senorita, is too complimentary to 
 his countrymen," answered Ingraham. " Some of 
 them are, I regret to say, by no means so scrupu- 
 lously exact in their sentiments. But how is my old 
 friend Don Gilberto?" 
 
 " Very well, serior, muchas gracias. After your 
 going," she continued, lowering her voice a little, 
 " we had much good luck. Besides Carmencita's 
 marriage, papa sold the mine of La Luz, of which 
 no doubt you heard him talk, for a great deal of 
 money. He has often said that it was you who 
 brought him the good fortune." 
 
 " That was very kind of him," said Ingraham, 
 a little dryly, " and somewhat unlike the usual way 
 of the world, which is to quickly forget the bringers 
 of good fortune; although I can not flatter myself 
 that I had in reality anything to do with Don Gil- 
 berto's luck. But I have a friend here, another 
 truth-telling Americano, who I perceive desires 
 much to be presented to you, if you will allow 
 me " 
 
 Brooke was indeed making telegraphic signals 
 to that effect. Carmen's attention being just then 
 absorbed by Rivera, and the appearance of Ines hav- 
 ing at once attracted the young man's appreciative 
 eye. -That young lady according gracious permis- 
 sion, the introduction was duly made, the usual re- 
 quest for a dance was followed by some consultation 
 of a ball-book, and then the two figures vanished 
 in the throng, leaving Ingraham to turn again to- 
 ward Carmen. 
 
 The movement proved to be favourable. Rivera 
 was in the act of bowing himself away, in order to 
 fulfil an engagement, the other members of the 
 group lately surrounding her had for the present 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 169 
 
 disappeared, and Ingraham, seeing his opportunity, 
 grasped it with promptitude. Glancing around, he 
 perceived in a recess at a little distance a vacant seat, 
 partially sheltered by broad-leaved plants, and, of- 
 fering his arm, begged permission to conduct her 
 to it. 
 
 " For I think," he said, with a composure which 
 surprised himself, " that I may claim the privilege 
 of an old friend to inquire somewhat at leisure how 
 life has gone with you since we parted." 
 
 She took his arm without hesitation. " It will 
 give me pleasure to tell you anything you wish to 
 know," she answered, with the same air of fully 
 recognising his claim upon her friendship with 
 which she had greeted him. " A few minutes of 
 quiet will be pleasant, and this place is not so se- 
 cluded that Ines can not find me." 
 
 " The appearance of your sister surprised me," 
 he said, as they sat down. " I don't know why it 
 should, except that, having never seen any of your 
 family, I have always thought of you as a being apart 
 from such ties." 
 
 " As simply a re-embodiment of the Marquesa? " 
 she asked, with a quickly flashing smile. But, al- 
 though she smiled, it was evident that the words 
 were not altogether a jest with her. " We were 
 many at home," she added: "that was why you found 
 me at Las Cruces. And Ines was the favourite of 
 mamma — she was so bright and pretty, and I so 
 quiet always." 
 
 " The sisters of Cinderella are not the only per- 
 sons in human history who have occasionally been 
 surprised by the recognition of modest merit," ob- 
 served Ingraham, with a certain sense of amuse- 
 ment in the thought of what the surprise of Dona 
 
170 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 Josefa Valdez must have been when the child she 
 had fancied only fit to be drudge and dependant at 
 Las Cruces achieved such unexpected elevation. 
 
 " Tell me," he continued, suddenly, yielding to 
 an irresistible impulse to use this opportunity to sat- 
 isfy in some degree at least the curiosity which tor- 
 mented him concerning her, " has your life since 
 your marriage been happy? I am not speaking of 
 Don Luis, nor with reference to him, but of others. 
 It was a hard position: have you conquered it?" 
 
 She looked at him, and he could not but think 
 that in the depths of her splendid eyes there dwelt 
 a power to conquer anything. 
 
 " I understand what you mean," she replied, 
 quietly, " but I had no difficulty: all was easy. No 
 doubt you think this strange, and I suppose it was 
 strange that those who had known me as little more 
 than a servant — merely Carmencita, so insignificant 
 and so humble — should have yielded me respect and 
 submitted to my authority when I was made the mis- 
 tress of Las Cruces. I can only tell you that it was 
 so." 
 
 " I think I comprehend why it was so," said In- 
 graham. " There are others besides those who sit 
 on thrones born to rule by right divine. You were 
 born with a fitness so peculiar for the position into 
 which you stepped, that no one could fail to recog- 
 nise it. It has not needed what I have seen to-night 
 to tell me that others besides those at Las Cruces 
 have recognised that the homage and power you 
 once instinctively craved, and the longing for which 
 was an impulse and demand of your nature that you 
 could not stifle, are yours in fullest degree. Have 
 they satisfied you?" 
 
 " What is it to be satisfied, seiior? " she inquired. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 171 
 
 in turn, with the same calmness she had already dis- 
 played. " I have not asked myself the question. 
 These things of which you speak — homage, consid- 
 eration, flattery — have come to me as natural conse- 
 quences of my position. They have seemed as much 
 a part of my life as the air I breathe, and I give them 
 no more thought. But if they were withdrawn I 
 can not doubt that I should miss them ; for it is im- 
 possible to deny that homage pleases, and that the 
 sense of power is sweet." 
 
 For a moment Ingraham did not reply, so much 
 was he surprised by the candour of her speech, and 
 the glimpse she so unhesitatingly afforded him of 
 a nature which seemed to him hardly less interest- 
 ing under these changed circumstances than it had 
 seemed when first revealed to him in the old days 
 at Las Cruces. An impulse to probe the depths of 
 this character which retained in the midst of the 
 world, as in the cloister-like seclusion of her youth, 
 its singular unlikeness to others, stirred strongly 
 within him, a desire. to learn more of how the change 
 in her outward life had affected that inner Ufe which 
 in the former time had been so unsuspected by those 
 among whom she lived. 
 
 " It is more than I could have hoped," he said, 
 at length, " that you would be so frank with me. 
 Your kindness encourages me to ask yet another 
 question." 
 
 " Ask what you will," she said, again. " Do you 
 think I ever forget- that but for you I should still 
 be what you found me? Nothing that I could do 
 wou-ld be too great to repay what I owe to you. And 
 why should I not speak to you frankly — you, who 
 alone understand things which I would despair of 
 making any one else comprehend? " 
 
172 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 " It is of these things I wish to speak," replied 
 Ingraham. " But let me say first that you owe me 
 nothing for the part I played in the past. Was it 
 merit of mine that I had eyes where others were 
 Wind? But because I possessed your confidence 
 then, and because I do not think I am unworthy of 
 it now, I venture to ask how much of your old feel- 
 ing or fancy about the Marquesa still survives." 
 
 She looked at him for an instant in silence, not 
 as if hesitating or doubtful, but only as if consider- 
 ing how to make her reply most clear. And again 
 the startling hkeness which she bore to the picture 
 struck upon his senses with a perception so vivid 
 that he was prepared for her answer when it came. 
 
 " Since you have asked the question, sefior," she 
 said, " I will tell you all with absolute frankness. 
 Since the day that I became the wife of Don Luis, 
 it is as if Carmen Rosa died, and my thoughts and 
 feelings have been those of the Marquesa rather 
 than of myself. By which I mean — for I fear that 
 I express myself obscurely — those which would be 
 natural for the Marquesa instead of for the Carmen 
 that you knew. There has no longer been any sen-se 
 of struggle between what I appeared and what I 
 felt. All has been natural and easy. And indeed 
 how else is it possible to explain that I have never 
 for a day or an hour been at fault in -a position which 
 might naturally have been supposed to be so strange 
 to me? — that I have never failed to know instinc- 
 tively how to act and what to say in any emergency 
 of my new life?" 
 
 " It was because your nature — by what mystery 
 of inheritance transmitted to yoU, God only knows 
 — ^fitted you for your new life as for a thing in perfect 
 harmony," Ingraham answered. " Who could look 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 173 
 
 at you and wonder that you should not be at fault 
 in it? You are " 
 
 Here he paused. How could he speak of that 
 deepened likeness to the portrait of the woman 
 whose image, he perceived, still retained such power 
 over Carmen's imagination — a likeness that had 
 always seemed to him fraught with a suggestion 
 of prophecy of misfortune? If no one else had per- 
 ceived it — and it was not likely that any one else 
 had — why should he, with his unerring artist eye, 
 again call attention to what others had no power 
 to see? He resolved that he would not do so; and 
 it was in this brief pause — filled by the cadenced 
 rise and fall of the music, and accented by the sway- 
 ing, circling forms of the dancing throng before 
 them — that he was conscious of a sensation as if 
 he had been brought over land and sea to take up 
 again the broken thread of the story which he had 
 fancied dropped forever in the twilight at Las Cru- 
 ces. This, he said to himself afterward, was no 
 doubt because their conversation had reverted to 
 the old topic, so full of mystery and fascination ; for 
 what part could he have yet to play in the existence 
 of this woman who so explicitly declared that all 
 her longings and desires were rounded into com- 
 plete harmony with her life? But it was easier to ask 
 this question afterward than to resist the strong im- 
 pression borne to him as he sat by her side — for the 
 moment as much alone in the brilliant ball-room 
 as in the quiet garden of Las Cruces — the impres- 
 sion which made him say what his cooler sense later 
 condemned as melodramatic and absurd. 
 
 " You spoke a moment ago," he said, hurriedly 
 — for he caught a gUmpse of Brooke's tall head 
 above the crowd, and feared he was seeking them — 
 
174 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 " of owing me a debt of gratitude because from my 
 visit to- Las Cruces, from my seeing what those 
 around you were too blind to perceive, the great 
 change in your destiny has resulted. I repeat again 
 that for this you owe me nothing, since in all the 
 matter I was but an instrument of fate ; and I hope 
 that your life may be too happy for you ever to 
 regret the change which, nevertheless, but for me 
 might never have been wrought. Yet if a time 
 should come when you should regret this change 
 and need — who knows ! — a friend or defender, then 
 remember that you have a right to call upon one 
 who, however unwittingly, ^Itered the whole course 
 of your life — to ask of me any service which a man 
 may render. Will you remember this? " 
 
 She regarded him now with wonder, untouched, 
 however, by any shade of displeasure, as if she, too, 
 felt that the strange past gave him a right to speak 
 so of the unknown future. 
 
 " Sefior," she said, gravely, " I will remember 
 it if you desire, as a proof of your kindness and readi- 
 ness to serve me. But I can think of nothing less 
 likely than that I shall ever call upon you. While 
 my husband lives I have no need of other friend or 
 defender." 
 
 " That may b6 so," he answered, " and God grant 
 it! But should any need in which another man may 
 have power to serve you spring out of the great 
 change wrought through me, then remetnber that 
 it is my right to be that man. Now forgive me for 
 having startled you by speaking of these things — 
 and here comes your sister." 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 175 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 It was as they sat over their late breakfast the 
 next morning, discussing the events of the ball, that 
 Brooke expressed himself enthusiastically with re- 
 gard to Ines. 
 
 " Not to be mentioned in comparison with her 
 sister!" he said, repeating Ingraham's somewhat 
 scornful words. " Perhaps not. But it is the grand 
 style, that of the sister — stately, superb, marvellously 
 beautiful, a picture stepped into life, a great lady 
 of the past revived, a princess, if you will, made to 
 be worshipped from afar, while that of Dona Ines 
 is enchanting, sparkling, seductive. The mingling 
 of blood — ^for she tells me that her father is an 
 American — ^is very evident in her. She has all the 
 alluring charm of the Mexican beauty, with the 
 quick intelligence and frankness of manner of an 
 American girl, which makes a delightful combina- 
 tion." 
 
 "H'm!" said Ingraham. "However delight- 
 ful it may be, I am not sure of the desirableness of 
 the combination. Dona Ines will soon be regarded 
 very much askance if she displays any American 
 frankness of manner in Mexico." 
 
 " So she says. She told me that her liking for 
 American manners, and her disposition to practise 
 them, had already brought disagreeable criticism 
 upon her. She admires the freedom which women 
 enjoy in our country, and declares that her dream 
 is some day to go and live in the States." 
 
 " She has been very confidential, it appears," 
 said Ingraham. " My dear fellow; it would be ab- 
 
176 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. , 
 
 surd for me to assume the role of Mentor, but you 
 must allow me to observe that the woman who 
 chafes against social restraints in one country would 
 hardly find any country in which they were lax 
 enough to satisfy her — not even the most socially 
 primitive regions of our highly favoured land." 
 
 " But, by Jove! it is hard on a girl with any ideas 
 of liberty to be bound hand and foot as they are 
 here!" exclaimed Brooke, feelingly. "I never 
 thought of it until Dotia Ines was talking." 
 
 " And then you were fired with the spirit of a 
 knight-errant to rescue the imprisoned damsel! 
 Bah! Don't you understand that, with the unfail- 
 ing instinct of a coquette, Doiia Ines was talking 
 simply with a view to arouse your interest? I doubt 
 if she has ever thought of chafing against the social 
 restraints which she has known since she was born, 
 and which here, as in Europe, are relaxed only 
 among the lower orders. The last thing she would 
 reially desire would be to sink to the level of those 
 for whom such restraints are not considered neces- 
 sary; and the daughters of Don Gilberto Rosa, in 
 time past at least, have been near enough to that 
 level to cling eagerly and tenaciously to the re- 
 straints imposed on those of higher social rank. 
 Therefore, with due regard to her charming seduc- 
 tiveness, I find the complaints of Doha Ines spme- 
 what insincere." 
 
 " But who is this father of hers? " asked Brooke, 
 curiously. " ' Don Gilberto Rosa ' does not sound 
 very like an American name." 
 
 " Are you not aware that foreigners residing in 
 thiscountrygenerallyuse the Spanish form fora part 
 at least of their names? John Jones, for example, 
 ceases to be John and becomes Juan Jones, famil- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 177 
 
 iarly and picturesquely known as Don Juan. So 
 Gilberto Rosa stands for Gilbert Rose, in plain Eng- 
 lish." 
 
 " Gilbert Rose ! . That means nothing," said 
 Brooke, while Ingraham reflected how very much 
 it did mean. " Who is the man? An adventurer? " 
 
 " As an American, somewhat on that order, I 
 imagine," replied Ingraham, carelessly. " But as a 
 Mexican he has made a position for himself as a 
 clever man of affairs, and, being now closely con- 
 nected with Don Luis Fernandez del Valle, he has 
 no doubt a successful career within his reach. A 
 person of very shrewd wits is Don Gilberto, and not 
 likely to let any chance of fortune escape him." 
 
 " I fancy I know the kind of man," said Brooke. 
 " But it is rather a singular type to have produced 
 such an imperial creature as the beautiful wife of 
 your Don Luis." 
 
 " If I told you what I not only believe but know 
 of Carmen Rosa, of how she is the strange revival 
 in every possible point of an ancestress dead two 
 hundred years ago," said Ingraham, quietly, " you 
 would probably believe me to be the victim of a de- 
 lusion. But it is nevertheless true. There is in the 
 old hacienda of Las Cruces a portrait painted by 
 Velasquez of a certain Marquesa de Fernandez del 
 Valle which would readily pass for a portrait of 
 Dofia Carmen as she now appears. When I saw her 
 first the likeness was so far undeveloped that I was 
 the first to discover it; but now the blindest person 
 would perceive it." 
 
 " I have no difficulty in believing it," said 
 Brooke, " for I perceived at once that she is in sin- 
 gular degree the revival of a type which one seldom 
 sees except in such portraits. It is an interesting 
 
178 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 question, which I suppose you have no power of 
 answering, how far her inward character corre- 
 sponds to her outward appearance and is also a re- 
 vival of the dead ancestress." 
 
 The question was as natural as it was lightly 
 asked; but even the speaker saw that Ingrahatn 
 shrank from it. 
 
 " How can one tell? Who could answer that? " 
 he said, somewhat sharply. " Such speculation is 
 absurd. But to return to the point from which we 
 wandered, this strange re-embodiment in a degree 
 accounts for the fact that such a creature can be the 
 daughter of Don Gilberto. But there is no explana- 
 tion necessary for the second daughter. She is thor- 
 oughly in harmony with her immediate surround- 
 ings. There is no mystery of distant inheritance 
 about her. She is what one would naturally look for 
 in the child of such a marriage — that of a Mexican 
 woman possessing no doubt the beauty of her Latin- 
 Indian race, and an American of sharp wits arid 
 some pretension to good blood. But it is not a very 
 elevated type." 
 
 " I fail to perceive that," replied Brooke, some- 
 what obstinately. " You let your imagination carry 
 you too far, Ingraham. It is impossible to declare 
 exactly what people may be from a study of their 
 progenitors, either near or remote." 
 
 " Perhaps not," Ingraham agreed, " yet I have 
 seldom found myself mistaken in these impressions. 
 I can not, however, blame you for distrusting my 
 unlucky imagination, which I have been distrusting 
 myself for some time past — only to find at last that 
 it has not been in fault. Now," as they rose from 
 table, " where shall we go? Have you any plan for 
 this morning? " 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 179 
 
 " None, except an appointment with Rivera, who 
 proposes to introduce me at his club. For the rest 
 — you are familiar with Mexican social customs ; is 
 there any reason why we should not call at the Fer- 
 nandez del Valle, to ask how the ladies are after the 
 ball, you know? " 
 
 " So far from there being aity reason why we 
 should not," Ingraham replied, " it is a duty incum- 
 bent upon me at least, who am indebted to Don 
 Luis for hospitality in time past. I must call this 
 afternoon, and you can accompany me if you like." 
 
 " I have received more cordial invitations," re- 
 turned Brooke, Ughtly, " but, since I accept on the 
 ground of my own inclination rather than your cor- 
 diality, you may count upon me." 
 
 " This is a habitation worthy of your revived 
 Marquesa, Ingraham," Brooke exclaimed when 
 they found themselves a few hours later before the 
 immense carved doorway of the Fernandez del Valle 
 house. " In Spain or in Italy it would be called a 
 palace." 
 
 " It is very fine," Ingraham agreed, as, stepping 
 within the open door, where the porter rose from 
 his seat to receive them, he cast a rapid glance over 
 the stately spaciousness of the noble building. It 
 was plainly one of the great old houses of the Co- 
 lonial period, of which many still remain in the city 
 of Mexico, and which seem built to defy time, as 
 they stand with their massive walls, their vast courts, 
 and their rich carvings in stone, while the wrought 
 iron and quaint tile-work with which they are 
 adorned make them objects to delight an artist's 
 heart. A perfect example of such an ancient mag- 
 nificent house is that once owned by the Condes 
 
l8o THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 de Santiago near the Hospital de Jesus, and such 
 another was this of the Fernandez del Valle. Long 
 unoccupied by the family during their reverses of 
 fortune, a little work in the interior had neverthe- 
 less been all that was necessary to remove the dis- 
 figuring traces of time, and a little modern furnish- 
 ing to convert the'*ediseval abode into a dwelling 
 fit for the occupation of a prince. 
 
 To an inquiry if the serior and seiiora were at 
 home, the porter replied in the affirmative, and, ad- 
 vancing to the foot of a staircase which mounted 
 upward in superb flight, pulled a bell-cord, and then, 
 with a courteous gesture, invited the visitors to as- 
 cend. Mounting the wide marble steps, they were 
 met at the head by a servant, who, receiving their 
 cards, ushered them along a tile-paved corridor lined 
 with beautiful plants into a reception-room, from 
 which opened by large double doors a vast and lofty 
 sala. 
 
 Had anything besides his presence in Mexico 
 been necessary to assure Ingraham that a great 
 change had taken place in the circumstances of Don 
 Luis, the appearance of the apartment which they 
 now entered would have so assured him. It was 
 furnished with a modern luxury as bright and at- 
 tractive as the Paris of which it breathed, that was 
 strangely in contrast with the ancient massive dwell- 
 ing. 
 
 "This is charming!" said Brooke, casting an 
 appreciative glance over the satin couches, the light, 
 gilded chairs, the whole aspect of delicate luxurious- 
 ness. " I fancied that within such venerable walls 
 we should find nothing of later date than the six- 
 teenth century. But this is very efifective — a fin- 
 de-siecle boudoir in a mediaeval palace." 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. i8l 
 
 Ingraham frowned slightly. The modern touch 
 which pleased the other offended him. He thought 
 of the sala of Las Cruces, with its old Spanish leather 
 and inlaid wood and the picture worthy of a king's 
 palace. There all was harmonious, with an antique 
 charm like the breath of another world. But here 
 — the contrast might be effective, yet it jarred upon 
 his imaginations of Carmen, all of which had for 
 their setting the ancient picturesqueness and almost 
 monastic simplicity of the surroundings amid which 
 he had seen her first. 
 
 He had, however, no opportunity to express this 
 dissatisfaction, for scarcely had the servant left the 
 room when Don Luis entered, with that cordial air 
 of hospitality which a Mexican seldom fails to dis- 
 play beneath his own roof. 
 
 " It gladdens me much to see you, mi amigo," 
 he said, patting Ingraham lightly on the back. 
 " And your friend, Seiior Brooke — I am delighted 
 to welcome you into my house, senor, and beg that 
 you will consider it your own." 
 
 " We have done ourselves the honour of call- 
 ing to pay our respects and inquire if the ladies 
 have entirely recovered from the fatigue of the 
 ball last night," said Ingraham. " It was a 
 very brilliant affair, but the crowd was exces- 
 sive." 
 
 "Ah, what will you?" said Don Luis, lifting 
 his shoulders. " Official balls must of necessity be 
 crowded and in a degree indiscriminate. I was pres- 
 ent only as a matter of courtesy; but my wife and 
 her sister, I think, enjoyed it. Here they are, hovy- 
 ever, to answer for themselves." 
 
 They entered as he spoke — Carmen in advance, 
 with the unconscious majesty of bearing which dis- 
 
1 82 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 tinguished her, and which made Ingraham think of 
 a queen attended by her maid of honour, as his 
 glance fell upon Ines following her. For, notwith- 
 standing a family resemblance between the sisters 
 in the height of their figures and certain similar lines 
 and movements, it would be difficult to conceive 
 anything more unlike than the lofty beauty of the 
 one, with its stamp of noble simplicity, and the se- 
 ductive prettiness of the other, pervaded by a co- 
 quetry which spoke in every glance and gesture. 
 Carmen seemed more than ever like the portrait 
 as she moved forward with a grace so stately, a 
 loveliness so surpassing; and the perception of this, 
 which was strongly in Ingraham's mind, must have 
 been more evident on his face than he supposed, for 
 no sooner were the salutations of greeting over than 
 Don Luis addressed him. 
 
 " Taking for granted, seiior, your recollection 
 of the Velasquez portrait at Las Cruces," he said, 
 "may I ask if you find the resemblance of Doiia 
 Carmen to it, which you once thought so wonder- 
 ful, lessened or increased? " 
 
 The question surprised Ingraham too much for 
 him to think of evasion. In fact, his resolution of 
 the night before had escaped his recollection, so 
 fanciful to the calmer sense of daylight appeared 
 the need for the reticence he had determined to ob- 
 serve. 
 
 " It has increased," he replied, without an in- 
 stant's hesitation, the artist uppermost in him for 
 the moment, and his natural frankness asserting 
 itself in the old artistic fashion. " If it was striking 
 as I recognised it first, when the unUkeness was 
 almost as great as the likeness, it is much more strik- 
 ing now, when, instead of an unformed girl, Dofia 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 183 
 
 Carmen has become a woman such as the Marquesa 
 was when Velasquez painted her." 
 
 He spoke with the manner of one who utters 
 his thoughts aloud, but an instant later he was 
 startled into a sense of what he had done by per- 
 ceiving the effect of his words upon Don Luis. The 
 latter, turning, looked at his wife with the same ex- 
 pression of being waked to a new perception as that 
 with which he had regarded the portrait when In- 
 graham first called his attention to the strange like- 
 ness that Carmen bore to it. As if roused to a new 
 knowledge, great as that, he now gazed at her with 
 a keen and piercing look — ^the look of one who per- 
 ceives a fact hitherto concealed from observation, 
 but clearly patent when once attention is roused. 
 It was only for an instant that this look lasted. Then 
 he said, slowly — 
 
 " It is singular, sefior, how your mission seems 
 to be to open our eyes to things which we are too 
 dull to see without your aid. You are right again. 
 The likeness which Carmen bears to the portrait 
 of the Marquesa has developed with her own devel- 
 opment, until it is indeed much greater now than 
 when you first discovered it at Las Cruces." 
 
 " Nothing could be more natural," replied In- 
 graham, anxious to retrieve the blunder he had com- 
 mitted. For how was it possible, he said to himself, 
 that Don Luis should not think, even as he had 
 thought, of the story of the Marquesa, should not 
 shrink from the suggestions roused by Carmen's 
 deepened likeness to that portrait, where the skill 
 of the great painter had fixed so enduringly the 
 potent spell of the original that he had himself been 
 constrained to cry out, in words that recurred to 
 him like a prophecy of ill, " It was no wonder that 
 
1 84 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 tragedy centred about her. Such a woman was born 
 to make tragedies." 
 
 And such a woman, perfect in every point of 
 reproduction, even to the lips lightly touched with 
 disdain of the homage her beauty excited, and dark 
 splendid eyes filled with depths of possible passion, 
 was before them. Ingraham felt himself shiver a 
 little, even as he had shivered on that by-gone day 
 when he first saw the picture of Las Cruces. Yet 
 it was in vehement contradiction of the thought' that 
 any such tragedy as that of the Marquesa could 
 touch this noble lady, with her air of proud spotless- 
 ness, that he eagerly went on: 
 
 " It would not be natural that a likeness so 
 strong should not increase with time, up to the point 
 in life where the process of development in the Mar- 
 quesa was fixed by Velasquez in the immortality 
 of art upon his canvas. But beyond that point there 
 will be a growing difference, as there was a lessen- 
 ing difference before." 
 
 " To the portrait, yes," said Don Luis, thought- 
 fully, " but not, we may suppose, to the original of 
 the portrait." 
 
 " That," replied Ingraham, " it is, of course, im- 
 possible to determine." 
 
 " One may draw the inference," said the other. 
 " Meanwhile, it is quite certain that up to this point 
 the likeness has increased, and that Dofia Carmen 
 is in greater degree than when you last saw her a 
 reproduction of the portrait." 
 
 " There can be no doubt of that," said Ingraham, 
 with an inward reluctance which rendered the words 
 difficult to utter. 
 
 But Don Luis looked at his wife with a smile. 
 " Carmen, at least, will not find fault with you for 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 185 
 
 declaring that her beauty has increased," he said. 
 " For that, after all, is the result of the deepened 
 resemblance." 
 
 " If Dofia Carmen will pardon me," replied 
 Ingraham, " I should say that, like the resem- 
 blance, such a result is so plain as to be undeni- 
 able." 
 
 Carmen met his gaze with no more trace of em- 
 barrassment than if she had been the portrait of 
 which they talked. " If it be so, seiior," she an- 
 swered, " it is, no doubt, as you have said, a natural 
 result." 
 
 Meanwhile Brooke was saying to Ines, " You 
 know, of course, this odd portrait of which my friend 
 has talked to me. Do you perceive the striking re- 
 semblance which your sister is supposed to bear 
 to it?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," she replied. " It would not be possi- 
 ble not to recognise it. When one looks at the por- 
 trait and then at Carmencita, it is as if the Marquesa 
 had come to life before one's eyes; every one is as- 
 tonished by it; and yet no one had ever observed 
 it before the Seiior Ingraham went to Las Cruces." 
 
 " He did not tell me that," said Brooke. " But 
 artists have keen eyes, you know, and often detect 
 resemblances that other people fail to see. In- 
 graham is a true artist — ^there is not the least doubt 
 of that; although he does not make a profession of 
 his art." 
 
 " You mean that he does not paint pictures for 
 money? " asked Ines. '' So I have heard my papa 
 say. Indeed, if that were the case, he could not 
 afford to cut them up as soon as he had finished 
 them." 
 
 " Is it a habit of his to do that? I was not aware 
 
1 86 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES, 
 
 of it," said Brooke, latighing. " It seems rather 
 an unnecessary proceeding, from every point of 
 view." 
 
 "A habit? I do not know if it is a habit with 
 him," the young lady repHed, arching her slender 
 dark eyebrows and showing her pearly teeth in a 
 laugh that echoed his own. " But he did it once. It 
 was a portrait of Carmencita — and most wonderful, 
 all who saw it say. But he cut it to pieces when he 
 found she was to marry Don Luis. My papa told 
 us that also. He said it was a great pity, and he was 
 sorry that Seiior Ingraham felt the matter so much, 
 but of course there could be no doubt that Don Luis 
 was the person for Carmencita to marry." 
 
 " Why of course?" asked Brooke, in a discreet 
 tone. He found this frank young lady quite enter- 
 taining, and had no scruples of conscience in thus 
 surprising Ingraham's secret. In fact, he rather en- 
 joyed doing so, for in the light of this revelation 
 everything became clear to him, and he felt that he 
 touched one of those dramas of life which are so 
 often enacted before our eyes without our being 
 the wiser. 
 
 Ines opened her dark eyes wider and arched 
 her brows again at the question ; her play of coun- 
 tenance was perpetual, but never degenerated into 
 grimacing. " Do you ask me, why of course? " she 
 repeated. " It is strange that you do not see. To 
 marry Don Luis was a great match for Carmencita, 
 and it has helped us all — oh, more than you can 
 understand! For we were quite obscure people be- 
 fore — papa being an Americano, you know — and 
 very poor, although he was always expecting to be 
 rich. But since Carmencita has married Don Luis 
 everything has changed for us, and therefore I say 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 187 
 
 it was better for Seiior Ingraham to cut up his pic- 
 ture and go away." 
 
 " Tiiere is certainly no doubt how the matter 
 appears from your point of view," said Brooke. 
 " And the senora your sister — I may say Doiia Car- 
 men, may I not? — I suppose she also thought it best 
 that Ingraham should cut up his picture and go 
 away?" 
 
 Ines spread out her hands with a gesture which 
 expressed much. " How was it possible for her to 
 think anything else? " she asked. " If she had gone 
 away with Sefior Ingraham, and he is as rich as my 
 papa says, it might have been well with her perhaps, 
 but we should have been there in Morelia yet, poor 
 and obscure. I like it better here in Mexico, with 
 Don Luis as the Senator from Michoacan. And 
 so does Carmencita, I am sure." 
 
 "What a selfish httle wretch it is!" thought 
 Brooke to himself, but in a spirit of more amuse- 
 ment than condemnation. The very candour of the 
 selfishness disarmed criticism; the assumption that 
 Carmen owed it to her family to marry Don Luis, 
 even if her own fancy had been drawn toward the 
 lover whose passion expressed itself by cutting" her 
 picture into shreds, was, he knew, in social condi- 
 tions such as existed here, the natural opinion, and 
 he had liyed too much in European countries to 
 find the calmly mercenary tone of Ines regarding 
 her sister's marriage — and it was to be supposed, 
 regarding marriage in general — as revolting as an 
 American of a more primitive type might have found 
 it. But he thought it time to give the conversation 
 a more personal tone. 
 
 " I perceive," he said, " that we poor Americanos 
 have little chance to win your favour, senorita. You 
 
1 88 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 have no pity for my poor friend in his disappoint- 
 ment, and I fear you would have as little for any one 
 of his countrymen who should be unlucky enough 
 to follow his' example and lose his heart to a pair of 
 Mexican eyes." 
 
 The eyes in question — into which he boldly 
 looked with a gaze of admiration — met his own with 
 a swift, alluring challenge impossible to mistake, 
 and then the silken-fringed lids drooped demurely 
 over them. 
 
 " On the contrary, setior," she replied, " I have, 
 as I told you last night, a very great partiality for 
 Americanos. Is not my papa one of them? — and of 
 all his children I am most like him. I like Ameri- 
 can customs, and I am sure I should like the 
 American country, where I am told that girls are 
 as free as widows; but what will you? — I am a 
 Mexican, and since it is necessary for me to live 
 among Mexicans I must be content to do as 
 they do." 
 
 " Some gallant Americano will one day, perhaps, 
 come and ofifer to rescue you and carry you ofif to 
 the land of liberty to which you allude," said Brooke ; 
 " and then — will you then follow your sister's exam- 
 ple, choose the Don Luis of the story, and leave the 
 other to perform the equivalent of cutting up your 
 picture?" 
 
 "Ah, sefior" — what boundless innocence of 
 voice, and what a very devil of coquetry in the bril- 
 liant glance under the dark lashes! — " it is not pos- 
 sible for me to answer that until the Americano shall 
 present himself. For there are many different kinds 
 of Americanos. So much I know." 
 
 " What is it that you know, Inesita? " asked 
 Don Luis, turning around to take part in the con- 
 
, THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 189 
 
 versation. " Not much outside of the school-room, 
 carita, fast as thy tongue goes." 
 
 " I was telUng the sefiior what I know only be- 
 cause I have learned it from my papa," the girl an- 
 swered, demurely, " that there are many different 
 kinds of Americanos." 
 
 " The sefior hardly needs for you to tell him 
 that," said Don Luis, with a smile, as he looked at 
 Brooke. " There are many different kinds of peo- 
 ple in all countries ; but truly it seems to me, if I may 
 be permitted to say so, seiior, that there is no coun- 
 try where so wide a gulf seems to exist between 
 the best and the — others, as in your own." 
 
 " The others, as you politely term them," said 
 Brooke, laughing, " have, unfortunately, so largely 
 represented their country in Mexico that I wonder 
 you have discovered the existence of any other kind 
 of Americans. But there are a few of us who must 
 beg to be judged as individuals, and not as belong- 
 ing to a class which has made itself so deservedly 
 obnoxious to your countrymen." 
 
 " There can certainly be no doubt to what class 
 Sefior Brooke belongs," replied Don Luis, courte- 
 ously. 
 
 It was during the opportunity thus afforded that 
 Ingraham said in a low tone to Carmen, " I hope 
 that you will pardon me for having forgotten so far 
 as to fall into my old habit of personal remarks. For 
 an instant I failed to remember that you are no 
 longer the Carmen of Las Cruces." 
 
 " On the contrary, seiior," she answered, with 
 the proud yet gentle dignity which had so often 
 surprised him in the girl and now sat so well upon 
 the woman, " I am now more than ever in a true 
 sense Carmen of Las Cruces. For Las Cruces is 
 13 
 
igo THE PICTURE OF LA'S CRUCES. 
 
 my home, where I have been very happy, where it 
 seems to me that there is a something of justice — 
 a righting of wrong, if I may so express myself — in 
 the fact that I am honoured as mistress where the 
 woman whom you tell me that I am so like died a 
 misjudged and unhappy prisoner." 
 
 " Why should you believe that she was mis- 
 judged?" Ingraham could not refrain from asking. 
 " You can not have had any new light upon the 
 family tradition." 
 
 " Only the light of what is within myself," she 
 answered, with great positiveness. " But this tells 
 me that, however much appearances may have been 
 against her — and one does not need to be very old 
 or very wise, seiior, to know how deceptive appear- 
 ances can be — she was too proud and too lofty ever 
 to have stooped to stain her dignity and her soul 
 with the crime imputed to her. I would stake my 
 own soul upon that." 
 
 " It may have been so," said Ingraham, deeply 
 struck by her earnestness. " Who can tell? She 
 may have been suspected and judged unjustly, and, 
 if so, Heaven has raised up for her a champion such 
 as never woman had before, a descendant who, cen- 
 turies after her beauty has moulded into dust, de- 
 clares her innocence from lips that are a reincarna- 
 tion of her own." 
 
 She looked at him with the beautiful lips of which 
 he spoke faintly smiling. " You are as fanciful as 
 I am, seiior," she said. " And there have been times 
 when even you have thought me almost mad upon 
 this point. Yet nothing will ever persuade me that 
 I do not know that of which I speak. But now I 
 see yonder my little Alfonso. You must let me call 
 him and show him to you." 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 191 
 
 A child passing with his nurse along the corridor 
 outside was summoned within — a bold, beautiful 
 little fellow with large dark eyes and golden curls. 
 After he had been noticed and admired, the two 
 visitors rose to take leave, since an impatient 
 stamp of horses' feet, recurring now and again, 
 warned them that the carriage was no doubt waiting 
 for the ladies to take their afternoon drive. 
 
 But as Ingraham left the great old house and 
 walked away, two things remained with him: one 
 was the picture which Carmen made with her beau- 
 tiful boy in her arms, and the other the positiveness 
 with which she had declared from her own inner 
 consciousness and belief that the Marquesa had been 
 unjustly judged. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Inesita," said Carmen, " I do not think that it 
 is well for you to encourage the young Americano 
 who is the friend of Seiior Ingraham to make love 
 to you." 
 
 " And why not? " asked Ines, a little mockingly. 
 " Why should he not ' play the bear ' a little in his 
 own fashion? It will not hurt him, and it amuses 
 me. Perhaps it is because I am American, too, in 
 right of our papa, that I find him more amusing 
 than any Mexican whom I know." 
 
 " But it will not amuse him," said Carmen, 
 gently, " when he learns that he has been fooled. It 
 is a heartless game, Inesita, and one which you 
 should not play." 
 
 " Is it more heartless than that which you played 
 
ig2 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 with the Senor Ingraham when through him you 
 won Don Luis?" asked Ines, tossing her dark, 
 graceful head. " Do you think I have not heard 
 of that, and how he cut to pieces the picture he had 
 painted of you?" 
 
 " You mistake what you have heard," replied 
 Carmen, grown cold and stately of a sudden. " I 
 never deceived Senor Ingraham — not for a moment 
 — nor thought of winning Don Luis through him. 
 Because — and I grieve to say it, Inesita — your own 
 thoughts are low, you think that those of every one 
 else must be so. But if good feeling will not restrain 
 you, I warn you not to encourage this young Ameri- 
 can, because in that case I shall have to send you 
 back to Morelia." 
 
 " And why? " asked Ines, defiantly. " What is 
 this young American more than any one else, that 
 you should consider him? Is it because you have a 
 tenderness for all Americans?" 
 
 The girl's insolence fell unheeded on her sister's 
 dignity and coldness. " It is," she answered, quietly, 
 "because I promised papa that no entanglement with 
 any American should follow your coming here. ' I 
 will not permit anything of that kind,' he said. ' If 
 Inesita shows the least disposition to encourage an 
 American — of whom there are many to be met now, 
 even in society, in Mexico — tell her what I have 
 said; and if she does not obey the warning, send 
 her home at once.' I promised him that I would 
 do so; and that promise, if you do not heed what 
 I have said, I shall certainly keep." 
 
 Ines looked at the speaker for a moment as if 
 almost doubting the evidence of her senses. Al- 
 though the youngest, she had in their childhood 
 reigned supreme over Carmen by right of her 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 193 
 
 mother's partiality, her supposed greater beauty, 
 and her faculty of self-assertion. The relative posi- 
 tion had naturally changed since Carmen's mar- 
 riage, but not enough to prepare her for this as- 
 sumption of authority which could not be gainsaid. 
 The time had come when she too felt, what the 
 household of Las Cruces had long since learned, 
 that if the Marquesa did not live again in Carmen, 
 at least the Marquesa had possessed no more in- 
 herently than did Carmen, and as it were by right, 
 the ability to rule those whom the fortunes of life 
 placed under her control. It was the. first time that . 
 Ines had come in conflict with that calm, superior 
 will and felt the necessity of submission. For al- 
 though it was easy enough to defy Carmen and re- 
 fuse obedience with angry words, what then? Car- 
 men had but to speak, and Ines would find herself 
 back in Morelia, which she detested, since it was 
 connected with the days of poverty and obscurity, 
 since her associations there were with people whom 
 she now scorned, and since it offered no such open- 
 ings for her ambition as Mexico afforded. No, it 
 would be too heavy a price to pay for the satisfac- 
 tion of defiance, to be sent into such banishment. 
 She recognised that instantly; but her anger was 
 the greater for her impotence, and even as she de- 
 termined that obedience should be only in outward 
 seeming, she also resolved that she would find 
 some means of revenging herself on the sister 
 who ventured to assert the right to control her 
 actions. 
 
 " I do not understand," she said, with outward 
 coldness but inward rage, " why papa should have 
 spoken to you on such a subject instead of to me. 
 Of course I am bound to respect his wishes, strange 
 
194 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 as they seem. Yet why should he dishke his own 
 countrymen so much? " 
 
 " I did not ask him," Carmen replied. 
 
 She said nothing more, and for several minutes 
 there was silence. The conversation had taken place 
 during their drive in the Paseo a few days after the 
 visit of Ingraham and Brooke — a visit which the 
 former had declined to repeat, but which the latter 
 had found an excuse for repeating with Rivera. 
 There had then been a meeting on Sunday in the 
 Alameda, where the fashionable world displays itself 
 in its gayest plumes, and this afternoon there had 
 been enough coquetry in the manner in which Ines 
 wafted toward him, as they passed in the drive, the 
 pretty Mexican salutation of fluttering fingers, to 
 call forth from Carmen the warning with which the 
 conversation opened. 
 
 Nursing her wrath at what she considered a most 
 unwarrantable interference with her private amuse- 
 ments, Ines, after the last words, leaned back in her 
 corner of the carriage as they rolled smoothly along 
 the wide roadway crowded with equipages, a line 
 of mounted police in the centre dividing the two 
 streams of vehicles and preserving perfect order. 
 The sun had set; his last reflected glow vanished 
 from the great snow-peaks in the east, and some- 
 thing of twilight began to reign in the foliaged 
 spaces of the broad avenue, lined with gardens and 
 villas. For it is the fashion in Mexico to prolong 
 the afternoon drive until day is on the verge of melt- 
 ing into night, or has already so melted. Presently, 
 like the rest of the world, they paused in the glorieta, 
 a vast statue-adorned circle, where the band in its 
 pavilion was playing the sweet Mexican airs which 
 are so full of light grace and melody, and where a 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 195 
 
 throng of carriages are always gathered. Dusk had 
 now deepened, so that to recognise one's next neigh- 
 bour was not very easy, and therefore, when a horse- 
 man drew up into the vacant space beside the car- 
 riage, only the person on the side where he appeared 
 could readily determine his identity. 
 
 But it hardly needed the sound of Brooke's easy 
 voice to make Ines quite sure who the new-comer 
 was. " Shall one say buenos dias or buenos noches, 
 setiorita?" he asked. "It is a pretty custom, this 
 of taking the Paseo at twilight: I always think of 
 a carnival of fireflys, when I see the carriage-lamps 
 gleaming all over the avenue ; but mistakes are pos- 
 sible in the obscurity, and one might find one's self 
 whispering one's secret in another ear than that for 
 which it was intended." 
 
 " He who should be foolish enough to whisper 
 any secret in the Paseo would deserve to find it 
 public property, senor," replied the girl, with a me- 
 lodious laugh. " There are other and safer places 
 for the telling of secrets." 
 
 " No doubt," said Brooke — and he would have 
 been deaf to the language of tones had he not under- 
 stood the subtle intimation conveyed in those words 
 — "but you must remember that a poor foreigner 
 does not always know where such places are to be 
 found. As far as I can perceive, one might have a 
 secret to tell which burned within him for utterance, " 
 and yet find no opportunity whatever to tell it." 
 
 " There are always opportunities for him who 
 knows how to take them, sefior," the low, signifi- 
 cant tones replied. " It is only that, being a for- 
 eigner, as j'ou have said, you do not know." 
 
 " But, since being a foreigner is my misfortune 
 rather than my fault, have I not some claim upon 
 
196 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 your charity for instruction ? " he asked, reining his 
 horse closer to the side of the carriage. " I should 
 be very grateful for a hint. I am not dull ; no more 
 than a hint would be necessary." 
 
 Ines gave a rapid glance around. The music 
 was pealing its strains out upon the soft, colour- 
 stained twilight, horses were stamping, carriages 
 coming and going; no word of this tete-a-tete could 
 possibly be heard, unless it were by Carmen. But 
 Carmen, she perceived with satisfaction, had her 
 attention engrossed by a horseman on the other 
 side of the carriage — Brooke's companion, who, of 
 course, was Ingraham. A quick, venomous light 
 came into the girl's eyes, and her scarlet lips curled 
 into a smile which was anything but pleasant. " It 
 is for me only that Americans are forbidden," she 
 said to herself. " Well, we shall see." 
 
 She> turned back toward Brooke. The words 
 which she uttered were not very many. But he, as 
 he had said, was not dull. Even under ordinary 
 circumstances a word was enough for him, and now 
 his interest was kindled by the novelty of this flirta- 
 tion, by the touch of difficulty which gave zest to it. 
 He did not for a moment mistake Ines, or regard 
 her as anything more than what she was, a con- 
 summate coquette, who, as far as lay in her power, 
 would break a man's heart for pastime. But there 
 was nothing deterring to him in this knowledge. 
 He had not the least intention of allowing her to 
 break his heart, nor yet to lead him into any folly 
 of taking her or the situation seriously. He knew 
 well that in thus meeting his advances she betrayed 
 the character of the social surroundings which had 
 moulded her youth, and proved herself no high-bred 
 maiden, but the daughter of an adventurer and of 
 
THE nCTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 197 
 
 a mother who, springing herself from an obscure 
 class of society, had taken pride in her daughter's 
 coquetries, even while keeping a very sharp eye 
 on those flirtations through the window-bars which 
 had perfected coquetry into an art. It was indeed 
 well for Carmen that she had been left in the seclu- 
 sion of Las Cruces and to Dona Antonia's somewhat 
 severe rule, well that she had grown up in that 
 stately if cold atmosphere, rather than that her mind 
 and manners had been tarnished by the influences 
 which had in great measure made Ines what she was. 
 But, being what she was, she offered to Brooke an 
 opportunity which he felt could not but prove ex- 
 tremely entertaining — a flirtation with all the ac- 
 companiments which render love-making in Span- 
 ish lands so alluring to the romantic fancy. 
 
 Meanwhile, Ingraham on the other side of the 
 carriage was saying to Carmen, " I am sorry to have 
 been out when Don Luis did me the honour to call 
 yesterday. But I hope to have the pleasure of see- 
 ing him again before I leave Mexico." 
 
 " Many times, I hope, serior," she answered, with 
 the gracious cordiality that is second nature to 
 Mexican man or woman. " Why do you forget that 
 our house is yours, and that it would give us great 
 pleasure to see you in it? There are few evenings 
 when we have not friends with us, and many of 
 these — men in public life — it might interest you to 
 meet." 
 
 " Your house could never be other than inter- 
 esting to me while it contained yourself and Don 
 Luis," replied Ingraham. " But, since you include 
 me in the number of the friends who are permitted 
 to visit you informally, I shall be happy to present 
 myself some evening." 
 
198 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 " Could you possibly doubt that we included you 
 among the friends whom we would be glad to see 
 at any time? " she asked, with a slight accent of re- 
 proach. " I fear you do not remember the past as 
 well as we do, seiior." 
 
 This was a little exasperating to one who remem- 
 bered the past much too well for his own comfort, 
 and before Ingraham paused to, recollect himself 
 the feeling found expression in speech. 
 
 " On the contrary, seiiora," he replied, " I think 
 that it is I who best remember Las Cruces and all 
 that occurred there. If I remembered less well, I 
 should perhaps be more ready to take advantage 
 of your kindness." 
 
 The words were hardly spoken before he re- 
 gretted them, and the regret was increased by the 
 startled glance of surprise which she turned upon 
 him. Again he observed how absolutely she was 
 without the faintest conception of his having any 
 ground for a sense of injury with regard to her 
 treatment of him ; and, seeing this as a man of coarse 
 perceptions would not have seen it, the sense of in- 
 jury itself died away, and he felt ashamed of the 
 brusquerie of his speech. 
 
 " Forgive me," he added, quickly, before she 
 could speak. " I should not have said that. My 
 memory of Las Cruces and of you contains nothing 
 which I would wish to change. To find your kind- 
 ness undiminished is more than I could have ex- 
 pected. I am very sensible of it, and I shall cer- 
 tainly do myself the honour of calling, as you per- 
 mit, very soon." 
 
 " The sooner the better," she replied, with a smile 
 and a graceful inclination of the head, as he, bowing, 
 drew his horse back and ended the conversation. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 199 
 
 He was glad that Brooke was unusually silent 
 as they rode slowly toward the city along the dark- 
 ening avenue, with its now lessening throng of car- 
 riages and gleaming lamps. It was owing to the 
 fact that they had been out on a day-long excursion 
 to the Desierto that they were on horseback — ^which 
 is the custom for the morning rather than for the 
 evening Paseo; but the chance had served each 
 well. Brooke was still smiling over Ines's hint, while 
 Ingraham, recalling the gentle cordiality of Car- 
 men's manner, said to himself that the doubts and 
 scruples which had kept him away from her were 
 absurd. For was it not the cure he had appointed 
 for his malady, and which had drawn him over land 
 and sea in his return here, to see her in her new life, 
 and so divest himself of the unreal fancies that still 
 clung about her image in his mind? Was it not 
 essential to this end that he should regard her, not 
 as the heroine of a story that had enthralled his 
 imagination, not as the revived personality of the 
 Marquesa transferred to another age and time, but 
 as the wife of Don Luis and the mother of his chil- 
 dren? It was by seeing her in this commonplace 
 role that his best hope lay that the wild fancies which 
 had clustered about Carmen of Las Cruces would 
 die, and that, like a man released from some spell of 
 sorcery, he would arise and go forth free — free as he 
 had not been since he first stood before the Velas- 
 quez portrait. Yet, overwhelmed, as it were, by 
 recognition of the fact that his imagination had not 
 deceived him in the depth of her likeness to that por- 
 trait, and oppressed by a fear that the strange spell 
 of the past might revive and increase rather than 
 lessen were he again subjected to her influence, he 
 had, after their first necessary meetings, avoided 
 
200 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 her as if she had been a Circe of evil enchantment, 
 rather than one whose eyes were full only of the 
 light of ancient kindness, and before whose match- 
 less dignity and purity any thought which did not 
 do her honour would sink down abashed. 
 
 " Brooke," he said, abruptly, when, having left 
 the Avenida, they were drawing near to their hotel, 
 " should you like to pay a visit at the Fernandez del 
 Valle to-night? Dona Carmen told me a few min- 
 utes ago that it is their custom to receive their friends 
 in the evening, and I fancy they think we — or at 
 least I — ^have rather neglected them." 
 
 " It is distinctly a case of ' I,' not ' we,' " replied 
 Brooke. " They certainly do not think that I have 
 neglected them. But I shall be very happy to ac- 
 company you to-night. It seems a tempting of 
 Providence not to take advantage of such a social 
 opportunity." 
 
 " It may rather be a tempting of fate to take ad- 
 vantage of it," said Ingraham, as if to himself. " But 
 we will go." 
 
 XX. 
 
 Looking back afterward on this period of his 
 stay in Mexico, it seemed to Ingraham as if for a 
 time he had suffered all thoughts of the Velasquez 
 picture and his forebodings connected with it, all 
 memories of the Marquesa, all memories even of 
 the Carmen he had known at Las Cruces, to pass 
 away from him in his enjoyment of a social inter- 
 course to which Carmen's words on the Paseo had 
 been the introduction and key. When he went that 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 201 
 
 evening with Brooke to the Fernandez del Valle 
 house, they found what she had indicated — nothing 
 of the nature of a formal reception, but a group of 
 three or four persons assembled in the small sala, 
 pleasantly illuminated by shaded lamplight, where 
 during the course of the evening several others 
 dropped in. Evidently his old friends had gathered 
 with cordiality around Don Luis, who, Ingraham 
 perceived from the prevailing tenor of the conversa- 
 tion, was developing the qualities of a political lead- 
 er, and his house had come to be known as a pleas- 
 ant place to meet. Probably the rare beauty and dis- 
 tinguished manners of its young mistress had 
 something to do with this, although Ingraham also 
 observed on the first evening, what struck him often 
 afterward, that she made no effort whatever to claim 
 or attract attention to herself. 
 
 Such efforts, however, were for such a woman 
 unnecessary. To escape attention was for her im- 
 possible. Had she desired to do so, there would 
 have been but one means of accomplishing it — ^to 
 withdraw altogether from society. But while there 
 was no effort to attract, there was also no effort to 
 escape. As she had told him, she took homage, con- 
 sideration, flattery, as a matter of course. No princ- 
 ess bom in the purple could have had more the air 
 of one to whom these things were natural as the 
 air she breathed, and whose vanity was no more 
 roused by them than her composure was disturbed. 
 Sometimes, like a picture in a dream, Ingraham 
 had a vision of the girl he had once seen seated at 
 her lowly tasks in a room bare as the aspect of her 
 life, and, contrasting that humble maiden with the 
 queenly woman who received with a dignity so per- 
 fect the admiration amid which she moved, he asked 
 
202 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 himself if anything short of magic could explain the 
 transformation. 
 
 It was a question which . others besides himself 
 had asked. For it is hardly to be supposed that 
 to the friends and relatives of Don Luis his mar- 
 riage had appeared as anything save an act of su- 
 preme folly. They had shaken their heads and 
 prophesied only evil of a union so. ill judged and, 
 from every point of view, so unequal. When, they 
 asked, did a man of mature age who married a girl 
 young, beautiful, inexperienced, and humbly born, 
 fail to repent of his folly? There was great com- 
 passion expressed for Don Luis, great regret for a 
 weakness which would surely entail upon him such 
 deplorable consequences. But no one had any com- 
 passion to bestow upon Carmen, for whom the mar- 
 riage was also, in a certain sense, unequal, and who 
 might be supposed to be running some grave risks 
 likewise. The discriminating eye of the public saw 
 only the extraordinary elevation which had come to 
 the daughter of Doiia Josefa and Don Gilberto. It 
 was the story of King Cophetua over again, and 
 who, in story or out of it, was ever known to enter- 
 tain compassion for the beggar-maid? 
 
 But as time went on, it began to appear, even 
 to these critics, as if their compassion had been 
 wasted, as if the marriage, unequal though it seemed 
 with respect to age and social position, was not so 
 unequal in reality. People who had gone to Las 
 Cruces filled with curiosity, expecting to see a girl 
 without presence or manners, although with a pretty 
 face no doubt, went away confounded with astonish- 
 ment, having met a woman whose gracious stateli- 
 ness might have become a court, and who, young 
 as she was, impressed by her strange beauty and 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 203 
 
 noble demeanour those to whom but a short time 
 before she would have been too insignificant for 
 notice. 
 
 And if this had been the case soon after her mar- 
 riage, how much more was it so now, when the lapse 
 of years had settled her in her position and given 
 her the ease of one born to it! Ingraham was aware 
 of this, but from a wide knowledge of the world he 
 was also aware that the women are rare in any rank 
 or position of life who remain complete mistresses 
 of themselves, who are neither tempted to folly nor 
 swayed to frivolity, when to youth and, beauty are 
 added the incense of admiration and the intoxicat- 
 ing consciousness of power. Would it be proved 
 at last that, with all her grand self-possession. Car- 
 men was in reality no stronger than others, and that 
 the desires which she had expressed in the old days 
 at Las Cruces were not only the expression of in- 
 herited nature, and implanted instinct derived from 
 the past, over which she had no control, but also 
 the longings of individual vanity? This was the 
 question he found himself unable to answer, the 
 problem which tormented him, as it seemed his fate 
 to be tormented by one problem or another con- 
 nected with the strangely fascinating personality 
 of this woman. 
 
 Fascinating to others as well as to him it evi- 
 dently proved; although he said to himself jeal- 
 ously that no one else could know her as he knew 
 her, no one else could be what he had been, her 
 discoverer, almost her creator. But there was 
 about her a charm and spell — such a charm and 
 such a spell as breathed from the woman upon the 
 deathless canvas of Velasquez — ^which no one who 
 approached her was so dull as not to feel in greater 
 
204 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES, 
 
 or less degree. The world in general began to call 
 her " the sorceress,'^ although it might have been 
 said that no sorcery was needed beyond that with 
 which Nature had so liberally endowed her in the 
 splendour of her matchless beauty. But those who 
 spoke of sorcery intended to convey no intimation 
 of coquetry : it was impossible for the most envious 
 or the most censorious to accuse her of using the 
 weapons of her charms for purposes of conquest. 
 Disdainful of admiration she was not, for disdain 
 expresses too active a sentiment; but so superbly 
 indiiiferent, so wrapped in a mantle of perfect dig- 
 nity, that the world, in despair of explaining the 
 spell which emanated from her without efifort on 
 her part, called it sorcery, even as Ingraham long 
 since had so called the effect of the portrait of the 
 Marquesa on himself. 
 
 Among those who seemed to feel this influence 
 most strongly, or at least to exhibit it most un- 
 mistakably, was the young diplomatist Rivera, who 
 was in truth not so young but that he had received 
 his social training from several years' residence in 
 Paris and Madrid. That he brought thence the 
 belief that there is nothing in the fact of her hav- 
 ing assumed the bonds of matrimony to prevent 
 a young and beautiful woman from being the ob- 
 ject of the most open admiration and gallantry, will 
 not surprise any one who is at all familiar with 
 those gay capitals. Nor was it surprising that on 
 his return to Mexico he found nobody so worthy 
 of what he felt to be the honour of his attentions 
 as the regal beauty whom Don Luis Fernandez del 
 Valle had astonished society by introducing as his 
 wife. It is probable that had she been of far more 
 ordinary attractions, Don Alfredo, as his friends 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 20S 
 
 called him in the familiar Spanish fashion, would 
 still, in support of his character as a man of the 
 world, have devoted himself to her; but, his percep- 
 tions having been sharpened in a society where the 
 strange and the subtle outrank all other attractions, 
 he was more conscious than any one else, save In- 
 graham, of Carmen's most strange and subtle 
 charm. 
 
 " But it is a mystery, a wonder! " he said once 
 to Irigraham, as they walked away together from 
 an evening in the Fernandez del Valle hpuse. 
 " How to account for it I know not. Our Mexican 
 women are charming— I, who know women in so 
 many countries, assure you that there do not exist 
 women more charming— but it is the exception 
 when one finds among them women of the world, 
 and then only among those of the highest rank, 
 who have been brought up with peculiar advan- 
 tages. But here is a woman who holds her own 
 with matchless skill — who would hold it anywhere, 
 since she holds it with me — and yet she was a no- 
 body, without blood or training; a seamstress, serv- 
 ant. Heaven knows what, when Fernandez del 
 Valle married her." 
 
 " Allow me to correct you," said Ingraham, 
 keeping his anger in control, and speaking quite 
 calmly. " It is a gross exaggeration which asserts 
 that Dona Carmen occupied such a position as you 
 indicate. I, who know exactly what that position 
 was before Don Luis thought of marrying her, as- 
 sure you that when I went to Las Cruces I found 
 her there, her claim of kindred fully recognised, 
 and herself the god-daughter and protegee of Doiia- 
 Antonia; while if she performed some household 
 tasks, it was as a child of the bouse might have 
 14 
 
2o6 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 performed them. As for blood, I fancy she stands 
 as nearly related to the Marquesa, from whom she 
 derives her striking appearance, as Don Luis him- 
 self; the only difference being that he represents 
 the direct line." 
 
 " There is, I imagine, a vast difference also in 
 the character of the blood introduced into the 
 original strain," said Rivera, " although one might 
 be forgiven for swearing that only the purest sangre 
 azul flows in the veins of Doiia Carmen. It is, as 
 I began by saying, a "wonder and a mystery. Be- 
 sides her rare beauty and her noble manners, there 
 is a fascination connected with her which one can 
 not resist, something strange and unusual, which, 
 if she were a different woman, would bind a man, 
 body and soul, as by a spell." 
 
 Ingraham was silent, while a slight shiver crept 
 over him. Were not these almost identically the 
 words he had himself used when, standing before 
 the picture of the Marquesa, he had thanked God 
 that she was dead? But even as he had then felt- 
 his thanksgiving premature, since Carmen was alive 
 and inheritor of all her mysterious power, so here 
 was another who recognised the fact that, if she 
 so willed it, a man would have no alternative but to 
 lay his heart down at her feet, that she might tread 
 on it if she liked. , 
 
 " I do not believe," he said, slowly, after a pause, 
 " that Doiia Carmen exerts with intention the power 
 to fascinate which she possesses and which you are 
 not alone in feeling." 
 
 Rivera lifted his shoulders and spread out one 
 hand with a gesture signifying absolute perplexity. 
 " I assure you," he replied, gravely, " that, with 
 all my experience, I am unable to say whether she 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 207 
 
 exerts it with intention, or whether she does not. 
 I know only that I am conscious of her possessing 
 it to a degree I have never known equalled." 
 
 To this Ingraham made no answer. What, in- 
 deed, could he say? He, too, was in doubt — doubt 
 that grew daily — ^whether or not Carmen veiled with 
 consummate skill the exercise of her power, or 
 whether it was as unconscious as the .dark splendour 
 of her glance and the proud sweetness of her smile. 
 
 And there was another to whom this doubt had 
 also come unbidden, and with whom it increased 
 as things nourished in secret are likely to increase. 
 It is possible that, in his pride in his wife's beauty 
 and in her ability to conduct herself so as to compel 
 the admiration of the most reluctant, Don Luis 
 had never thought of drawing any inference of an 
 injurious nature from that strange likeness to the 
 Marquesa which was only a source of pride arid 
 justification of his choice, until the appearance of 
 Ingraham. Then it was not so much recollection 
 of their past rivalry, nor vulgar jealousy of the man 
 who had loved Carmen with a passion such as men 
 are not likely soon to forget, which made this re- 
 appearance coincident with certain awakened per- 
 ceptions on his part. It was rather to be attributed 
 to a profound confidence in Ingraham's power to 
 read things hidden from his own observation. As 
 the American had discovered the likeness never 
 discerned before between the Velasquez portrait 
 and the humble maiden of Las Cruces, so when he 
 said that this likeness had grown and deepened with 
 Carmen's development, the inference which he had 
 himself shrunk from drawing became at once clear 
 to Don Luis. If the likeness, why not then the 
 qualities of which the likeness was but the outward 
 
208 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 and visible sign? As far as Carmen was concerned, 
 Don Luis was prepared to believe any marve) 
 which might spring out of the resemblance apd 
 transformation already so marvellous, and there 
 seemed a fitness in the fact that Ingrahatp, who had 
 first opened his eyes to the likeness which made 
 him see his proud ancestress reproduced line for 
 line and tint for tint in the girl who glided unnoticed 
 as a shadow about his stately house, should now 
 open his eyes further to all that this likeness meant 
 and portended. Whoever knows men at all is aware 
 that the most difficult of all beliefs to eradicate is 
 that which has no basis in reason but rests upon 
 some one of the deep superstitious instincts com- 
 mon to humanity, and from which the nlost en- 
 lightened are not always free. Such a basis the 
 doubt of his wife, now roused in the mind of Don 
 Luis, possessed. In her conduct there was no flaw, 
 no point to hang suspicion upon; but fixed in his 
 inner consciousness was the thought, " She is the 
 living image of the Marquesa; she must, there- 
 fore, possess the Marquesa's nature, and sooner 
 or later it will betray itself; sooner or later the 
 story of the Marquesa will be told over again." 
 
 Evil seeds grow apace, and, as there is no seed 
 more evil than suspicion, none other grows so fast 
 in the mind and heart of man. Eyes which look 
 through mists of suspicion are also not long in find- 
 ing all that they seek; and hence it came to pass 
 that Don Luis, observing his wife as he had never 
 observed her before, began to ask himself the same 
 question which was perplexing Ingraham — ^to wit, 
 whether it was possible that a power of fascination 
 so great that all who came within her influence felt 
 it could be unconsciously exerted, Of manifest 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 209 
 
 coquetry there was none. A queen upon her throne 
 could not have preserved a more regal simplicity. 
 But Don Luis was sufficiently a man of the world 
 to know that there is no art so fine as the art which 
 conceals art itself. Watching closely, he soon de- 
 cided that among all those who surrounded Carmen 
 there were two who, if not specially distinguished 
 by her favour — for that could be said of no man — 
 were distinguished by their attentions to her. These 
 were Rivera, in whom the intention of gallantry 
 was not masked by any undue regard to possible 
 gossip, and Ingraham, in whom it was not possi- 
 ble to forget the fotmer lover. Between these two 
 the suspicion of Don Luis hesitated, but together 
 with the passion he had all the deep reserve of his 
 race, the power of holding a feeling under complete 
 control until the moment of certainty and expres- 
 sion came, which has made certain shallow ob- 
 servers charge the Mexican with treachery of na- 
 ture, 'treacherous he is not; but, with passions 
 like a lava-flood when once aroused, he unites the 
 silence and tenacity of his Indian blood. So silent 
 now, but so tenacious of the suspicion roused with- 
 in him, was Don Luis, and only waiting a moment 
 of certainty to tlnleash the demon of jealousy to 
 which most of the tragedies of the coutltry are 
 owing. 
 
 xxi. 
 
 It is hot to be supposed that during this time 
 Ingraham was unobservant of the fact that Brooke 
 was devoting himself to Ines as far as it was pos- 
 sible to exhibit devotion toward a girl in Mexico. 
 
2IO THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 But the perception gave him little concern. In the 
 first place, he knew Brooke well enough to be aware 
 that this was only another of the many flirtations 
 which formed that young gentleman's favourite 
 mode of acquiring a cosmopolitan knowledge of 
 various countries; in the second place, his instinct 
 told him that Ines was not of the material to in- 
 spire a serious passion; and in the third place, he 
 knew that had it been otherwise Don Gilberto 
 could be trusted to peremptorily end the affair, 
 since his objection to an American son-in-law had 
 presumably not decreased since that objection was 
 so frankly stated to Ingraham himself. Easy in 
 mind, therefore, he had paid little attention to the 
 proceedings of his friend, until one or two circum- 
 stances, attracting his attention, led him to fear that 
 Brooke's ignorance of the conventionalities of the 
 country, and Ines's disregard of them, springing 
 from the social surroundings of her early youth, 
 might result in some scandal which would be ex- 
 ceedingly undesirable to the Fernandez del Valle 
 and to himself. 
 
 It was in consequence of this apprehension that 
 he decided to address a word of admonition to the 
 younger man. " Look here, Leslie," he said, at 
 last; " nothing is more disagreeable than to seem 
 to play the part of a spy, however unconsciously, 
 and see what is not meant for one's eyes, but I feel 
 bound to tell you that I have lately observed some 
 signs of a secret understanding between Doha Ines 
 and yourself, and, since I know the country better 
 than you do, I think it only right to warn you that 
 if others perceive such a thing it will compromise 
 the girl very seriously, and probably make anything 
 like a good marriage impossible for her." 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 21 1 
 
 Brooke looked at him quietly. " I take your 
 warning in such good part, my dear fellow," he 
 said, " that I have not anything to say about the 
 general expediency of minding one's own business. 
 No doubt you are right, and if Dofia Inesita, as 
 her friends call her, should be found out in her 
 Uttle flirtation — harmless though it really is — ^the 
 social consequences would probably be unpleas- 
 ant. But don't you think it is fair to suppose that 
 she is as well aware of that as I am? — or as you are, 
 either, for that matter? ~And, this being so — I put 
 it to you frankly — is it exactly my place to invoke 
 the fear of Mrs. Grundy? It might be very chival- 
 rous to do so, but I have not found that form of 
 chivalry generally appreciated by women." 
 
 " To invoke the fear of Mrs. Grundy is not 
 necessary in order to avoid tempting a woman to 
 indiscretion," said Ingraham. 
 
 " And is that the role for which you have cast 
 me?" returned Brooke, with some amusement. "I 
 should not like to say that the tempting was on the 
 other side; but at least I may be permitted to re- 
 mark that in our little amusement Doiia Ines has 
 so far decidedly taken the initiative, and, since she 
 is a young lady who does credit to her American 
 blood in her quality of wide-awakeness, I see no 
 reason why I should hold back when she beckons 
 forward." 
 
 " There is the reason," answered Ingraham, a 
 little sternly, " that while any scandal affecting this 
 little intrigante — who has the soul of an adven- 
 turess, as I saw at once — ^would be a small matter as 
 far as she is concerned, it would very disagreeably 
 affect the Fernandez del Valle, and be a poor return 
 on your part for their kindness and hospitality." 
 
212 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 It was with an effort that Brooke retained his 
 appearance of nonchalance under the other's seri- 
 ousness, but, after pausing a moment to light a 
 cigar, he said, carelessly, " Don't make a mountain 
 out of a mole-hill : it is such unnecessary expendi- 
 ture of energy. I have already told you that the 
 fair Ines is as well qualified to take care of herself 
 as any young person with whom I have ever had 
 the honour to be acquainted, and I assure you I 
 have not the least intention of playing the part of 
 tempter which you so flatteringly assign me, and 
 leading her into any indiscretion. We amuse our- 
 selves, her vanity is gratified, and my knowledge 
 of the different types of feminine nature is enlarged. 
 Voila tout." 
 
 It was now Ingraham's turn to be silent for a 
 moment. There was, he felt, no end to be gained 
 by allowing his irritation to express itself. He made 
 a turn across the room before he answered. Then, 
 returning to where Brooke sat quietly smoking, 
 he said, abruptly, " The best will be for us to 
 leave Mexico. Have you any objections to doing 
 
 SO."^ 
 
 "The greatest possible," replied Brooke, im- 
 perturbably. " Mexico amuses me : why should I 
 leave it? Now, with you" — he hesitated percepti- 
 bly — " the case is different. There may be reasons 
 why you should think it best to leave. A flirtation 
 with Dona In^s is a trifle, but a grande passion for 
 her sister would be no trifle. There might be ele- 
 ments of tragedy in that." 
 
 " What do you mean? " demanded Ingraham, 
 in a tone which startled himself. He was con- 
 founded by the audacity of the other, yet the words 
 were like a lurid flash letting in light upon his own 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 21 3 
 
 position. " Do you mean to insinuate that Dona 
 Carmen — — " 
 
 Btooke thr.ew up his hands in protestation. 
 " Heaven forbid! " he exclaimed. " I insinuate 
 nothing of Dona Carmen. She is as far above in- 
 sinuation as above suspicion. And I had no right 
 to speak of the matter. Only, what is plain to me 
 might possibly be equally plain to others." 
 
 "And what is that?" asked Ingraham, eying 
 him steadily, his face white, the veins on his fore- 
 head swelling into cords. 
 
 " I have already said it," replied the other; " and 
 since I said it with a good intention, there is no 
 reason why you should be offended. Briefly, my 
 friend, it is plain to me that you love this woman 
 with a serious passion — such a passion as has 
 worked the undoing of many a man; and, this being 
 so, I put it to you if there is not danger of a greater 
 and graver scandal affecting the Fernandez del 
 Valle than through any light folly of mine with 
 Doiia Ines." 
 
 Silence followed this inquiry. In the midst of 
 his anger Ingraham recognised that the speaker 
 was so far right, that there was indeed no compari- 
 son between the gravity of any scandal, or shadow 
 of scandal, touching Carmen, and one which should 
 touch a person so insignificant as Ines Rosa. But 
 although the light so abruptly cast revealed to him 
 a fact which up to this time he had endeavoured in 
 some degree at least to conceal from himself — 
 namely, that his passion for her who stood always 
 in his thoughts as Carmen of Las Cruces was more 
 serious now, had more the depth and gravity of a 
 great passion since it had been fed upon daily ob- 
 servation of the manner in which she satisfied and 
 
214 '^^^ PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 fulfilled every ideal that her appearance inspired, 
 than when he had left her in despair three years 
 before — he nevertheless declared to himself that 
 what he felt was his own afiair and could not by 
 any possibility reflect upon her. Yet, even while 
 he reassured himself in this manner, the fallacy of 
 such a conclusion struck him, as he remembered 
 that characteristic of society — the same in all lands 
 and under all skies — ^which leads it invariably to the 
 most severe judgment in any case open to doubt. 
 No: since it appeared that he was so poor in the 
 power of self-control that he wore his heart upon 
 his sleeve, and could not keep the light of passion 
 out of his eyes when they looked upon her, he must 
 not stay longer to expose her to the danger of that 
 pitiless judgment. He turned to Brooke. 
 
 " I have no right to be offended at what I 
 brought upon myself," he said, coldly. " And I so 
 far acknowledge the justice of your warning that 
 I repeat my proposal: let us both leave Mexico. 
 Considerations of danger to ourselves would, I 
 fancy, afifect neither of us. But when it is a question 
 of possible danger to others, however remote, we 
 have no right to be indifferent. Let us start to- 
 morrow for — anywhere you please." 
 
 Brooke hesitated. He was, as he had declared, 
 very well entertained in Mexico; and the proposal 
 to leave was exceedingly distasteful to hirh. But 
 something in Ingraham's manner made him feel 
 that the situation was not to be treated lightly. The 
 thought flashed through his mind, " I will go, since 
 he makes a point of it ; and then, if my interest sur- 
 vives the test, I can easily find an excuse to return." 
 So, after a moment, he said, " Not to-morrow. That 
 is a little too abrupt, for l have several engagements. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 21 5 
 
 But if you really insist — although I see no need of 
 such extreme haste — ^we will go the day following." 
 
 " Very well," replied Ingraham. " I shall make 
 all arrangements, and expect you to keep your 
 word." 
 
 A few details were then settled, and with this 
 understanding they separated. 
 
 Brooke, as usual, went to the house of the Fer- 
 nandez del Valle that evening, but Ingraham did 
 not. He sternly resolved that he would not again 
 trust himself in Carmen's presence, since, as he bit- 
 terly thought, he allowed all that he felt to write 
 itself on his face for the world to read. A proud 
 man always, and a man intensely reserved in what- 
 ever concerned his inner life, he determined to per- 
 mit himself no further opportunity for such self- 
 betrayal. Recognising clearly that the remedy 
 from which he had hoped so much had failed him 
 — that the Carmen of reality fell in no regard below 
 the Carmen of his imagination — he recognised also 
 that hope of cure there was none, save such as might 
 lie in his own steadfast power of self-conquest. He 
 would not, therefore, see her again; but so sharp 
 was the pang, so acute the sense of loss caused by 
 this resolution, that in order to escape from his 
 thoughts, and also from that insistent desire for 
 her presence, drawing him Hke a cord toward her, 
 he finally went out into the city streets. 
 
 Usually there was infinite entertainment for him 
 in the crowded thoroughfares of this most pictur- 
 esque city of the New World, this city transported 
 in every line of its architecture from Old Spain, 
 touched with the brilliance of Paris, the glamour 
 of the East, and the strange, wild charm of that 
 primitive race which is in its history and its genius 
 
2i6 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 the most interesting of aboriginal peoples. But 
 to-night he passed unheeding along the streets, one 
 side oi which lay in the white light of sublimated 
 moonshine, the other in deep, sharply-cut shadow. 
 Leaving the Hotel del Jardin — that hostelry formed 
 of the cloisters and garden of the greatest and most 
 ancient Franciscan monastery of New Spain — he 
 made a short cut through the vast courts of the pon- 
 derous palace now known as the Hotel Iturbide, 
 and came out through its sculptured portal on the 
 Calle San Francisco, with its brilliant shops and 
 ever-throflged pavements. To loiter here, either 
 by night or day, was generally a very agreeable oc- 
 cupation to this man, with his painter's eye and his 
 knowledge of many civilizations; but now the pic- 
 turesque varieties of the passing crowd hardly at- 
 tracted his glance; he turned his face toward the 
 Avenida, and, walking like one who had an ap- 
 pointinent to keep, very soon found hirhself cross- 
 ing the Mirador de la Alameda and entering be- 
 neath the shades of that beautiful pleasure-ground. 
 And if it is beautiful by day, what shall we call 
 it by night, and by moonlight, this place of broad, 
 mysterious avenues bordered by forest-like glades 
 and overreached by the spreading boughs of mighty 
 trees, avenues that lead to balustraded circles in the 
 centre of which fountains surrounded by Nile lilies 
 sleep like mirrors of silver, and carved stone benches 
 of classic form, under deeply drooping shades, seem 
 waiting for the veiled lady and the plumed cavalier 
 who will presently glide out of the shadowy vistas 
 and meet, to. tell the old story of passion and ro- 
 mance? For it is an enchanted spot, made for 
 romance and poetry and all those fair and graciotis 
 things which the world embalms in its heart for- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 2 17 
 
 ever, even while the materialist laughs and the cynic 
 sneers, this Alameda of Mexico, when night falls 
 over its avenues and gbrietas, its fountains and stat- 
 ues and depths of slumbering shade. And, to add 
 to the charm, it is at such time almost entirely de- 
 serted. No band plays here in the evening to draw 
 the people by its melody as flies are drawn by honey, 
 nor is it brilliantly illuminated. Here and there 
 lamps shine amid the deep foliage, and a police- 
 man's lantern placed on the ground at some circle 
 is a sign that the guardian of law and order is near 
 — and let it be said, in passing, that no better policed 
 city than Mexico exists— but for the most part the 
 leafy alleys are all empty of loiterers, the benches 
 hold no figures save such as the romantic imagina- 
 tion may place upon them, or, by chance, some pair 
 of whispering lovers of low degree. The place is 
 left to silence and mystery and shadow. 
 
 It had always charmed Ingraham at such times, 
 but never more th^ to-night, when its deep quiet 
 was like a soothing balm to bis spirit; and, al- 
 though he was perhaps unaware of the fact, its per- 
 fect picturesqueness, enchanting the eye at every 
 turn, was a wholesome distraction to his thoughts. 
 
 Pausing now and then to contemplate some pic- 
 ture made up of silvery light and black shade, of 
 masses of feathery foliage, of the white grace of 
 marble and the gleam of still water, he paced slowly 
 along the wide, tree-arched avenues, with occa- 
 sional intervals of rest on some seat which com- 
 manded a view of the radiating vistas filled with 
 mysterious shadows, for a length of time of which 
 he took no heed until a church clock near by struck 
 the hour of midnight. He was at that moment 
 seated on a bench at tjie point where one of the 
 
21 8 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 avenues entered a wide glorieta, and as the mellow 
 strokes fell on his ear he said to himself that the 
 time of temptation was over, that it was now too 
 late to go to the Fernandez del Valle house, that 
 his last opportunity for seeing Carmen once more 
 was past, and — this in deep depression and weari- 
 ness of soul — ^that he would now go home, if such 
 term might be applied to his hotel chamber. 
 
 But before he had put this resolution into prac- 
 tical effect, while he was still gazing, though with 
 absent eyes, at the loveliness of the silver-bathed 
 scene, something occurred which caught his at- 
 tention. Along a wide, deserted avenue leading 
 from the northeast corner of the Alameda, two fig- 
 ures came, silently, mysteriously as if evolved from 
 the shadows to which they seemed akin — a man 
 and a woman, moving slowly and talking earnestly 
 in very low tones. They passed within a few feet 
 of Ingraham without perceiving his still figure in 
 the deep shade, and crossed the glorieta, pausing 
 a moment by the central fountain to look at the still 
 water mirroring the high-sailing moon and the 
 sleeping lilies upon its breast, then moved onward 
 and entered one of the opposite avenues. 
 
 It was not until they had passed out of his sight 
 that Ingraham discovered that he was trembling — 
 trembling as if with a violent ague — in every limb. 
 For what had he seen? CdrmenI It was impossi- 
 ble to doubt it. True, she was closely wrapped in 
 the mufifling folds of the tapado, a great black shawl, 
 which, like the habit of a nun, makes all women 
 look alike, and can be used efifectually for purpose 
 of concealment. But there is one thing which not 
 even this disguising drapery can disguise, and that 
 is the carriage of the head and shoulders. Now, 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 219 
 
 Carmen's bearing was as distinctive and as full of 
 charm as her beauty. The shawl, drawn far over 
 the face of this woman and held firmly with one 
 hand under the chin, clung closely about the head 
 and shoulders and left their outlines clearly de- 
 fined, especially in rear view. On these outlines 
 Ingraham's gaze had fastened as she passed across 
 the moonlight-flooded space and paused by the 
 fountain. The pause had been but for a moment, 
 yet that moment, which would have been long 
 enough to imprint its likeness upon the sensitive 
 plate of a camera, was more than long enough to 
 leave it with equal clearness fixed in the mind of 
 the man who was not only lover but artist, who had 
 dwelt upon those lines as he only dwells upon form 
 and contour who is to transfer them, in the second 
 birth of art, to canvas or marble. He did not even 
 ask himself if he could be mistaken. He was per- 
 fectly sure. It was Carmen. He said so to himself 
 in a tumult of amaze and horror. Carmen — from 
 whom he had resolved to exile himself, lest the 
 faintest breath of scandal should blow upon her 
 through his devotion! Carmen, recklessly flinging 
 her fair name into the dust by being here alone at 
 night — ^with whom? 
 
 XXII. 
 
 It was not until both figures had passed com- 
 pletely out of his sight amid the deep shadows that, 
 with a start, he asked himself this question. Of the 
 man he had not thought at all so long as that fem- 
 inine figure, with its matchless bearing and those 
 
220 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES 
 
 beautiful well-known lines of head and neck and 
 shoulders, had filled his gaze; but now that they 
 were gone he had time to think of the other un- 
 noticed figure, and ask himself, with a sense of burn- 
 ing rage which turned him as hot as he had. been 
 cold the moment before, who it could be. 
 
 Suspicion at once leaped to Rivera. One brief, 
 passing glance before his attention was riveted on 
 the woman — a glance given when the pair had first 
 come into view down the shadowy avenue — had 
 told him that the man was a gentleman, for there 
 is no twilight deep enough to render this fact doubt- 
 ful to eyes accustomed to discriminate in social 
 ranks and conditions; and not only a gentleman, 
 but one with the nameless stamp of fashionable 
 distinction upon him. Such was Ingraham's first, 
 swiftly passing impression, the next instant for- 
 gotten as his glance fell on the woman clinging to 
 the arm of her companion, walking with such light, 
 easy majesty of step and air, her draped head turned 
 toward him with an attention that rendered her 
 unconscious of the statue-like figure in the corner 
 of the bench over which the foliaged boughs made 
 a canopy so dense as to be impenetrable to the 
 moonbeams. Following her with his eyes, how was 
 it possible for him to think of anything else, even 
 of that companion 'for whom she was perilling all 
 and more than all that fate had so unexpectedly 
 given her? But now — now that she was gone, 
 wrapped in the mysterious shadow out of which 
 she had come — he had time to ask himself who, if 
 not Rivera, this man could be, and to spring to his 
 feet with a fierce impulse to follow and take him 
 by the throat. 
 
 But before he had traversed the glorieta, on 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 221 
 
 which the marvellous Mexican moonlight lay so 
 whitely, saner thoughts had come to him. Whether 
 it was Rivera or not, what right had he to interfere 
 if Carmen chose to walk with him in the Alameda 
 at midnight, or to walk with him around the world? 
 All right of his to interfere in anything which con- 
 cerned her had ended, once and for all, in that sun- 
 set hour at Las Cruces when she had put him aside 
 and passed over his heart 
 
 To the world made for her. 
 
 Remembering this, and remembering also all his 
 presentiments and fears respecting her, from the 
 hour that he had first recognised her wondrous like- 
 ness to the Velasquez portrait, he felt like one who 
 sees before his eyes the fulfilment of tragic prophecy 
 and tells himself that he has known always what the 
 end would be. And yet — how could the Carmen 
 whom he knew and loved, not the fanciful Carmen 
 evolved from his imagination of what the Marquesa 
 was, but the Carmen who looked, spoke, arid smiled 
 upon him with such gentle frankness, such sweet 
 and perfect dignity, such proud consciousness of 
 all that her position imposed — how could that Car- 
 men be here and thus? 
 
 And then for thfe first time doubts of her identity 
 assailed him; Was he mad to draw such positive 
 assurance merely from the draped outlines of a head 
 and shoulders? It was possible — not probable, cer- 
 tainly, but barely possible — that another woman 
 might exist with those matchless, melting lines and 
 that imperial carriage. They were no longer before 
 his eyes, so he began to question thus, and, doubt 
 having once entered his mind, he felt that he must 
 go mad if he did not resolve it into certainty. 
 15 
 
222 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 With a new intention, therefore, he proceeded 
 on his way, leaving the fountain, by which he had 
 paused as if hoping to read in it the secret of what 
 face it had for an instant reflected, and entered the 
 avenue down which the figures had vanished. In 
 the obscurity formed by the interlacing shade above, 
 he could at first see nothing of them; but after a 
 minute or two of quick walking he perceived them 
 in advance of him, pacing slowly still, as people 
 well entertained with each other. Avoiding the 
 middle of the avenue, where light was fullest, he 
 kept in the deeper shadow of one side of the broad, 
 straight way, so that no backward glance, unless 
 very keen, could detect his presence, and so fol- 
 lowed them with the quiet persistence of a sleuth- 
 hound or an Indian. What he promised himself in 
 this following were sinlply two things: first, to sat- 
 isfy himself by some means if that shrouded figure 
 was indeed Carmen, and, should it prove so, to 
 learn who was the man for whom she thus cast 
 away the jewel of her fair name. 
 
 When they reached the end of the avenue and 
 had before them the broad white space where in 
 the clear moonlight every object was distinct as 
 day, beyond which lie the Calle de San Diego and 
 the handsome houses on its farther side, he quick- 
 ened his steps involuntarily, wondering what they 
 would do, if they would go farther in this direc- 
 tion, or if, clinging to the shadows, they would 
 turn, and so meet him face to face. They did nei- 
 ther. Passing quickly across the moonlit space, 
 they entered the first verdurous avenue which pre- 
 sented itself, and so turned back in the direction 
 they had come, but by a different way. 
 
 Ingraham did the same. It may be said for him 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 223 
 
 that the thought that he was playing the spy upon 
 people in whose affairs he had no right to inter- 
 fere did not once occur to him, so absorbed was he 
 in the vital necessity, as it seemed to him, of dis- 
 covering if this was indeed Carmen who walked 
 before him through the silver lights and shadows. 
 Through the entire length of the deserted Alameda 
 — growing more enchanted in its beauty with every 
 hour, as the moon like a great white balloon sailed 
 higher and higher in the hyacinth-blue sky — he 
 followed them, perceiving soon that their course 
 was directed to that northeast corner whence they 
 had first appeared. Reaching this, they left the 
 pleasure-ground, crossed the northern end of the 
 Mirador de la Alameda, passed by the ancient and 
 desecrated church of Santa Ysabel, and followed the 
 street known by many different names which leads 
 thence directly -eastward. Lower and lower sank 
 Ingraham's heart as he followed them, keeping him- 
 self at a discreet distance and as far as possible in 
 the shadows sharply cast by the tall old houses, 
 for they were holding their way directly for Car- 
 men's home, which was in the neighbourhood of 
 the Plazuela de Santo Domingo, that old quarter 
 of palaces. Like all the great houses of the splen- 
 did colonial period, that of the Fernandez del Valle, 
 besides its vast courts, had in the rear a beautiful 
 garden, the tall trees of which showed above the 
 high wall that enclosed the property from the street 
 in its rear. And, after several turns, it was into this 
 street that Ingraham finally saw the two whom he 
 had so steadily kept in view enter. He could not 
 follow at once, being too far behind; but in truth 
 he hardly needed to do so. All was plain now — 
 fearfully, damnably plain. The woman was Car- 
 
224 "^HE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 men, and, having taken this midnight promenade 
 with her lover, she would now let herself into her 
 husband's house by some rear entrance fit for in- 
 trigues like this. It was only from the grim de- 
 termination to make no possible mistake, to leave 
 no faintest thread of hope, and also to learn who 
 was the man, that Ingraham kept on. He turned 
 into the street — a narrow callejon lined chiefly by 
 dead walls — ^which the two had entered, and, lo! 
 what he anticipated had come to pass. There were 
 two no longer. He saw a door in the wall of the 
 Fernandez del Valle garden in the act of closing, 
 and, walking rapidly away from that door, in the 
 opposite direction, so that there was no hope of 
 meeting him, the figure of the man — alone. 
 
 At that sight Ingraham's blood again stirred 
 fiercely in his veins, a mist of passion rose to his 
 brain, his hands clinched themselves, and he quick- 
 ened his own pace. Again he forgot that he had no 
 right to challenge Carmen's lover, to take him, as 
 was his wild desire, by the throat and choke the soul 
 out of his body. He was fury-blinded, for when 
 the elemental savage that is in all men is roused 
 in such a man as this — a man who has never even 
 suspected its existence in him — its reign is brief in- 
 deed, but, while it lasts, of overwhelming power. 
 Walking rapidly, intent only on overtaking that 
 vanishing figure, he had gained the lately opened 
 garden door, was abreast with and passed it. 
 
 But hardly had he made five steps beyond when 
 he heard a harsh sound, as of a key sharply turned 
 in a lock, and, wheeling quickly around, he saw 
 the door again open. He paused, too much aston- 
 ished to think how strange might seem his presence 
 in this spot, and waited for a space of time which 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 225 
 
 was no inore than a heart-beat, but which seemed 
 to him far longer, for who should issue. Would it 
 be Carmen, expecting to find her lover lingering 
 still and herself returning for some last word? He 
 had time to think that he hoped so, in order that 
 he,' the man whose love she had first betrayed, migl^t 
 wither her with his scorn, when*there stepped forth 
 into the brilliant moonlight — Don Luis. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The two men — the only two now in all the length 
 of the short, narrow street — faced each other in 
 silence for a moment. What swiftly contending 
 thoughts and emotions filled that moment, espe- 
 cially on the part of Ingraham, surprised in a situa- 
 tion so false, and placed, as he at once perceived, 
 in a position so awkward, it would be vain to at- 
 tempt to say. There was a pause, in which they 
 silently looked at each other, and then, just as In- 
 graham, gathering himself together, was about to 
 speak, Don Luis broke the silence: 
 
 " So it is you, Sefior Ingraham," he said, quietly. 
 " My only doubt was whether it was you — or an- 
 other. Be good enough to enter my garden. We 
 have that to arrange for which the street is no 
 place." 
 
 " Sefior," replied Ingraham, " there is no need 
 that I should enter your garden, for you and I have 
 nothing to arrange. I have been walking, and 
 chanced merely to be passing your gate just as you 
 opened it." 
 
 " A very fortunate chance for me," said Don 
 
226 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 Luis, with the same air of courtesy, although his 
 dark eyes were shining with an ominous fire. " It 
 is a chance for which I have waited, and for which 
 I would have given much. Enter, sefior" — this 
 more. sternly: "you are a gentleman: it is there- 
 fore not necessary that I shall insist." 
 
 " If I yield to your request and enter," answered 
 Ingraham, " it is only that we may say whatever 
 needs to be said between us — and that is little — in 
 a place nbt so liable to interruption as this." 
 
 Don Luis bowed, and, drawing back with punc- 
 tilious Mexican politeness, motioned the other to 
 precede him through the door; then, following, he 
 carefully closed and locked it. 
 
 The garden into which they entered was of a 
 most fairy-like loveliness. Even in this moment 
 of intense preoccupation its beauty could not but 
 strike with a sense of charm on Ingraham's beauty- 
 loving senses. Trees, tall and grand as those of 
 the ancient Franciscan garden he knew so well, 
 lifted their massive trunks and royal crowns of foli- 
 age higher than the stately house, the sculptured 
 arches of which gleamed white at the farther end 
 of this paradise of verdure. Underneath the kingly 
 trees there was a luxuriant yet orderly wilderness of 
 all those shrubs and flowers which make Mexico an 
 enchanted Land of Bloom. Through their clus- 
 tering depths ran alleys carefully kept, centring, 
 according to the usual Mexican fashion, in a glorieta 
 — a miniature compared with those of the Alameda, 
 but following the model exactly — ^where a fountain 
 played in a stone basin, and carved stone benches 
 were placed around the outside of the circle be- 
 neath the drooping shade of fragrantly flowering 
 trees and shrubs. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 227 
 
 Into this open, silver-flooded spot Don Luis led 
 his unwilling guest, and then, turning again, faced 
 him. 
 
 " You were right in saying that words between 
 us need be few," he said. " It is enough that I saw 
 my wife come in, and that I found you, her com- 
 panion, at the gate where she left you. Words are 
 idle after that. One of us " 
 
 " Stop ! " cried Ingraham, extending his hand 
 in a gesture of overwhelming surprise and protest. 
 In the agitation of his mind he had absolutely not 
 thought of this — ^that lie should be taken for the 
 favoured man, the lover whom he had followed 
 with such fury in his heart! At the worst he had 
 anticipated only an embarrassing difficulty in ac- 
 counting for his presence, or questions, perhaps, 
 which he could not answer. But this! — For an in- 
 stant he was speechless with astonishment, and then 
 he saw, as by a lightning-flash, how hopeless of ex- 
 planation his position was. He, and no other, had 
 been in sight when Don Luis appeared, and how 
 was it possible to g^ve any sufficient reason for his 
 presence in such a spot at such an hour? Yet for 
 the sake of his own honour he must deny the charge. 
 So, calling together all his powers of self-command, 
 he went on calmly — 
 
 " Pardon me for interrupting you, sefior, but I 
 can not leave you for a moment longer under what 
 I perceive to be a total misapprehension. I have 
 been strolling for an hour or two about the streets 
 entirely alone. Chance led my steps into this neigh- 
 bourhood, and it was altogether by accident that 
 I was in the vicinity of your gate when you came 
 out. As for Dofia Carmen, I have not had the 
 honour of seeing her this evening." 
 
228 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 " I congratulate you upon the fact that you lie 
 like a gentleman, senor," replied Don Luis, with 
 an ironical bow. " We are both men of the world 
 and familiar with the code of honour which requires 
 that a man shall perjure himself if necessary to 
 shield a woman. But you do not shield her. I saw 
 Doiia Carmen. That is enough. We will now 
 waive further speech and proceed to the business 
 which must be settled between us." 
 
 He turned as he spoke and took from the bench 
 nearest him two swords, which he held out together 
 to Ingraham. " Take one of these," he said, sternly, 
 " I do not choose to kill an unarmed man." 
 
 Ingraham drew back a step and folded his arms. 
 " Nor do I choose, either, to kill a man with whom 
 I have no quarrel, nor yet to be killed under a mis- 
 take," he said, with equal sternness. " There is no 
 question of perjuring myself in order to shield, a 
 woman. My word to that effect should be enough. 
 I will not fight you, because I have never injured 
 you, and I am sure that you will do me the justice 
 to believe that had I done so I should be only too 
 ready to give you satisfaction." 
 
 " I believe only that you are a coward as well 
 as a liar!" replied the Mexican, hissing the words 
 through his teeth. " But your cowardice shall not 
 save you. Take one of these swords and defend 
 yourself like a man, or I will kill you like a dog! " 
 
 Ingraham recognised that there was no more to 
 be said. As well reason with a wild beast thirst- 
 ing for blood as with this man in whom all that was 
 most savage and fierce in his nature was roused by 
 the supreme injury which in all lands and in all ages 
 men have felt can be atoned for only by the most 
 simple and primitive vengeance. It was hard to 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 229 
 
 kill or be killed — he guiltless — because malicious 
 fate had put him in the place of the man who, he 
 could not but feel, had done him also a grievous 
 wrong, in destroying forever his ideal of the woman 
 he loved. But to expostulate or further afifirm his 
 innocence was useless, and to be murdered without 
 defending himself impossible. He took, -therefore, 
 one of the swords, which appeared to be of equal 
 length, and, saying merely, " Remember, senor, 
 that I defend myself because you leave me no al- 
 ternative but to do so, and not because there is the 
 least reason for our hostile meeting," he placed him- 
 self in position. 
 
 It was fortunate for him that he was an accom- 
 plished swordsman, the result of assiduous prac- 
 tice in his younger days in the best fencing-school 
 in Paris, for the man who opposed him now was not 
 only expert in the use of his weapon, but filled 
 with a deadly purpose. From the first instant in 
 which their swords touched, Ingraham recognised 
 his intention to kill him, and that as speedily as pos- 
 sible. He fenced, therefore, as a man fences who 
 feels that his life depends upon the clearness of his 
 head, the quickness of his eye, and the readiness 
 of his hand. What he desired to do was to disarm 
 his antagonist. But Don Luis was very nearly, if 
 not quite, his equal in skill, and for a time fought 
 warily. Then, growing more excited as he per- 
 ceived the ability of the other to maintain his guard, 
 he began to press more closely upon him with sav- 
 age lunges which it required all of Ingraham's skill 
 and science to parry. 
 
 iThey had been fighting for several minutes, the 
 sharp clashing of their swords, as they crossed and 
 re-crossed, alone breaking the moonlit stillness of 
 
230 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 the garden, and Ingraham was beginning to feel 
 that if he could not succeed in his endeavour to dis- 
 arm his fierce opponent the end must be that the 
 shining blade he was so closely watching would 
 finally pass his guard and run him through the 
 body, when an interruption occurred. 
 
 Absorbed in their contest, with breath coming 
 short and quick and the clashing and ringing of 
 steel in their ears, both men had been unaware of 
 flying steps coming along the garden paths toward 
 them, and so were equally unprepared for the ap- 
 parition which burst upon them when Carmen ap- 
 peared in the circle and made a motion as if to place 
 herself between them. 
 
 Instinctively both lowered their weapons and 
 turned toward her. Anything more beautiful, any- 
 thing more majestic, than her appearance at this 
 moment it is impossible to imagine. Dressed in 
 white — such a loose, negligee robe as a lady assumes 
 in her chamber — she had evidently not even waited 
 to snatch up the mantle without which a Mexican 
 woman seldom stirs, and her glorious hair hung 
 in a shower of gold behind her far below her waist. 
 Half angel, half queen, she seemed in her almost 
 unearthly beauty, as she stood in the white lustre 
 of the moonlight, her hand lifted more in a gesture 
 of command than entreaty. 
 
 " En el nombre de Dios! " she cried, her voice 
 ringing clear as the steel which had been lowered 
 before her, " are you Christian men that strive to 
 kill each other thus! Luis! — Sefior Ingraham! — 
 Mother of God! what madness has seized you!" 
 
 " Is it for you to ask, false and shameless wo- 
 man? " cried her husband, turning upon her. " Be- 
 gone — until I am ready to deal with you! " 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 23 1 
 
 His countenance as well as his voice was so full 
 of fury that Ingrahani would not have been sur- 
 prised had he lifted his sword and run it through 
 her heart. Indeed, so much had he heard of the 
 fearful lengths to which the passion of jealousy car- 
 ries Mexicans, both men and women, that instinc- 
 tively he made a step forward to interpose his own 
 blade, if necessary, for her protection. 
 
 But it was not necessary. The sword was never 
 forged that would not have fallen before her glance, 
 as, instead of drawing back, she made a step nearer 
 to the man who had thus addressed her. 
 
 " What is that you say to me? " she asked. " / 
 false and shameless — I, Carmen! It must be, then, 
 that you are mad." 
 
 " No, I am most sane — and restored to sanity 
 by you," he replied, violently. " I was mad to take 
 you, living likeness of a woman false and no doubt 
 shameless as yourself, to be my wife and bear my 
 name and honour. I have fared as might have 
 been expected, fool and dupe that I was! But I 
 can be duped no longer by your fair face, your noble 
 seeming, and your matchless craft. I know you now 
 for what you are, and later I will deal with you. 
 Now go — ^that I may kill your lover first! " 
 
 " My lover! " she repeated, and it was as if one 
 dead had spoken, so white and horror-struck had 
 she become. But in her whiteness and her horror 
 she was still majestic, still without sign of either 
 shame or fear. With a superb movement she turned 
 from the man who had thus justly charged or thus 
 vilely insulted her, and looked at Ingraham. 
 
 " Setior," she said, with a dignity he had never 
 seen matched, " have you no word to say of this 
 most false and undeserved accusation? Am / grow- 
 
232 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 ing mad, that I see you here, sword in hand, in 
 deadly combat with my husband, as my lover? " 
 
 Even in that moment Ingraham asked himself 
 if this could be the woman whom so short a time 
 before he had followed through the avenues of the 
 Alameda and along the silent streets. Was it pos- 
 sible, was it within the power of guilt, however 
 matchless in craft, to simulate innocence in such 
 manner as this? Looking at her, meeting the full 
 challenge of her direct gaze, he ffelt that the evi- 
 dence of his own senses was insufficient to make 
 him believe her other than she appeared. 
 
 " Sefiora," he answered, with deep respect, " I 
 have not waited for your coming to tell your hus- 
 band that he has made a strange mistake. But I 
 now repeat, in your presence, that this is the first 
 time I have addressed a word to you since we parted 
 last in your own sala, and that it was accident, in- 
 stead of any appointment, which brought me to the 
 gate of your garden to-night. That you found us 
 in deadly combat is easily explained: a man capa- 
 ble of defending his life does not permit himself 
 to be unresistingly murdered." 
 
 "Murdered!" she repeated. "You! — and for 
 what? Answer! " she said, turning imperiously to.- 
 ward her husband. " If you would not have me 
 believe you a maniac, answer what reason you have 
 to suspect me of being a dishonoured woman, and 
 this gentleman of being my partner in dishonour 
 and guilt." 
 
 Even Don Luis, maddened by that passion 
 which of all others- most obscures the faculty of 
 judgment and sets reason at defiance, could not re- 
 sist the effect of her speech and manner. If she 
 were guilty, never before had guilt worn such a 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 233 
 
 seeming, never before had culprit arraigned judge 
 with such authority and such indignation., 
 
 He looked at her for an instant with the fire of 
 his glance burning fiercely under his dark, bent 
 brows, before he rephed. " It is not for me to an- 
 swer your questions," he then said, sternfy, " for 
 you are as well aware as I am what reason I have, 
 not to suspect but to know you a dishonoured wo- 
 man, who not half an hour ago entered this garden, 
 returning from a midnight meeting with your lover. 
 Nay, not a word! — I saw you! That is enough. 
 For I have long suspected you and this gentleman, 
 your former lover, yovir discoverer as he once 
 proudly declared himself, and, finding by chance 
 the gate unlocked, I waited to see who would enter. 
 You came, stealing like a thief into the home my 
 folly had given you, and, letting you pass, in order 
 that I might surprise your companion, I hurried 
 to the gate and found this man, whom yet you have 
 the unparalleled audacity to declare to be not your 
 lover." 
 
 She threw up her arms with a tragic gesture, 
 and lifted her face toward heaven. 
 
 " I declare it again! " she cried, solemnly. " I 
 swear it by the blood of God! He is no more my 
 lover than it was I whom you saw enter this garden. 
 What he was doing at the gate I know not. But 
 I had not left the house to-night, until I heard the 
 clash of your swords and came to learn the cause." 
 
 "A likely story!" said Don Luis, with bitter 
 scorn, " that you would have come to learn the cause 
 of clashing swords, instead of rousing the house- 
 hold, unless you had known the cause full well. 
 Infamous woman, do not add falsehood to your 
 
234 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 guilt, for I tell you again that I saw distinctly the 
 figure which entered this garden from the street, 
 and it was yourself. Who else could it have been? 
 Who could be mistaken for youf " 
 
 " God knows! " she answered, in an awe-struck 
 tone. " Perhaps the shadow of that woman who 
 laid her dead hand on my life in my childhood, 
 whose living likeness I am, and whose fate I seem 
 doomed to repeat. I felt it always — a shadow, a 
 presentiment of certain evil! Did I not tell you 
 so long ago at Las Cruces?" turning with sudden 
 energy to Ingraham. " But let the fate fall on me 
 alone. Remember" — her voice sank to a tone of 
 fear and horror — "her story; remember the man 
 who was slain, innocent perhaps as you, while she, 
 no doubt, was innocent as I. Go, go ! For el amor 
 de Dios, go! It is the fatality of that old tragedy 
 which is upon us. Go ! " 
 
 Her passionate anguish — for it was nothing less 
 — filled and possessed her so that she sank upon 
 -her knees, holding out her hands to him in an atti- 
 tude of entreaty he could never forget, while the 
 tones of her voice, rising again in the last adjura- 
 tions, rang so clearly on the still night air that their 
 sound evidently penetrated to the house. There 
 was a sound of doors hastily opened, lights ap- 
 peared, voices were heard. Don Luis .turned to 
 Ingraham. 
 
 "Go!" he said, sternly, repeating Carmen's 
 word. " Our meeting will come later. If you have 
 one instinct of a gentleman, do not be found here. 
 Go!" 
 
 As he turned in obedience to this imperative 
 command, Ingraham saw Carmen sink to the 
 ground. The next moment he found himself in the 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 235 
 
 street, while the garden gate clashed shut behind 
 him, as if ending a wild and fearful dream. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 It was a proof of Ingraham's condition of mind 
 — of the effect of the scenes through which he had 
 passed — that as he walked away from that closed 
 door, along the narrow, silent callejon, he asked 
 himself if it were not possible that Carmen was 
 right, that the false situation in which he and she 
 — for he now believed her innocent as himself — 
 were involved was indeed owing not to any human 
 agency, but to some diablerie born of that strange 
 likeness which she bore to the long-dead Marquesa. 
 If that form which had walked before him and which 
 had entered the garden was not Carmen, who was 
 it? Who, as Don Luis had asked, could be mis- 
 taken for her? — and mistaken by the two men who 
 knew her best? He did not wonder at Carmen's 
 answer to that question, for he alone knew how 
 deeply her wild fancies about the Marquesa were 
 wrought into her inner life and had formed part of 
 it from her earliest childhood. To her the obvious 
 solution of the occurrence that had placed her in 
 a position so terrible was the fatality which over- 
 shadowed her, and of which she had always been so 
 conscious that she had drawn back in dread from 
 anything that could increase the mysterious bond 
 between the portrait and herself, when Ingraham 
 first proposed to make her resemblance to it clear 
 by painting her likeness. Remembering this, re- 
 
236 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 membering his own instinctive forebodings, which 
 had seized him afresh when he saw how that like- 
 ness had deepened, and remembering also the in- 
 describable effect which the picture had produced 
 upon him — an effect so strong that* he could not 
 wonder at its power over the imagination of a girl 
 who was like a vessel fitted by Nature to feel it — he, 
 too, was almost ready to believe that the web of fate 
 closing around Carmen and himself had been 
 woven by no mortal influence, but was the long- 
 drawn effect of that tragedy which had wrecked 
 the Marquesa's life. 
 
 The old shudder — that which he had felt as he 
 stood before the marvellous picture, glowing with 
 tints almost of life itself, and which he had again felt 
 when he saw Carmen in the full maturity of her 
 equally marvellous beauty — passed over him as he 
 thus seemed to recognise the power of a sinister 
 destiny which had drawn him from the other side 
 of the world to make him the sport of a fate which 
 he was unable to avert. For how could he prove 
 Carmen's innocence and his own? — ^how speak of 
 the figure — mortal woman, or appearance only — 
 which he had followed through the moonlight, and 
 which had trapped him into a situation that justi- 
 fied the conclusions Don Luis had drawn? How 
 was it possible for the latter to believe the wildly 
 improbable story of his accidental appearance in 
 the place where he was found, or — did he choose 
 to tell it — the equally improbable story of another 
 "■man who had disappeared as completely as if the 
 earth had swallowed him? Possible explanation 
 there seemed none; and yet without explanation 
 how could he avoid fighting Don Luis, who 
 would surely insult him publicly if there were no 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 237 
 
 other means of forcing him to fight? Instant de- 
 parture was open to him, but that he did not take 
 into consideration for a moment. Even had his 
 own honour not been involved, he could not have 
 left Carmen in this crisis of her strange fate— Car- 
 men, to whom, acting under a prophetic instinct 
 which it astonished himself to recall, he had offered 
 himself as a defender should she ever need one. 
 And surely she needed one now. He was con- 
 scious of a cold chill as he thought how absolutely 
 she was in the power of a man who had said of the 
 ancient tragedy, "There would have been few to 
 blame him had he run his sword through her heart 
 also." What was to prevent his doing now, in like 
 circumstances, what he had then spoken of — this 
 man who cime of a race ever fiercely unforgiving 
 to infidelity? He recalled the stories he had heard 
 from those who knew the country well, of knife- 
 thrusts that had avenged even the suspicion of be- 
 trayal. Don Luis would not kill his wife, or mark 
 her for life, after the fashion of a peon whose Indian 
 blood was aflame with vino mescal, but such ven- 
 geance as a gentleman could permit himself he 
 would surely take. Of that Ingraham had no doubt. 
 His own power to help the woman who had laid 
 her touch so unconsciously yet so persistently upon 
 his life was small indeed. But he registered a sol- 
 emn vow that what man could do in her behalf he 
 would do, not only because she was to him yet, 
 and in spite of all his efforts, the one woman of the 
 world, but because the old sense of responsibility 
 came back to him, and he felt himself as much the 
 creator of the changed conditions of her life as of 
 the picture that had revealed her to the eyes of the 
 man she had chosen. 
 16 
 
238 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 So, endeavouring to regulate the tumult of his 
 thoughts, he walked through the silent streets, 
 where all the noises of the day were hushed, and 
 the closely-barred houses with their grated win- 
 dows, standing in white light or wrapped in deep 
 shadow, seemed fit homes of strangeness and mys- 
 tery. Yet the sense of moving in a dream never 
 left him, not even when knocking up the sulky por- 
 tero to admit him into his hotel, or when laying him- 
 self down to await the calmer thoughts and possible 
 developments of the next day. 
 
 But when he awoke the next morning, after 
 finally falling into a brief and troubled sleep, it was 
 still with a sense of absolute unreality that he re- 
 called the events of the past night, and questioned 
 whether what had taken place had not been merely 
 a vision of disturbed slumber. It was some time 
 before rousing recollection could convince him of 
 the reality of all that had occurred; but, this once 
 accomplished, the wild fancies of the night van- 
 ished, as he considered the situation in which he 
 found himself by the clear light of day and of reason. 
 
 Viewed thus, the circumstances that involved 
 him as in a net seemed hardly less hopeless of ex- 
 planation now than they had appeared in the hours 
 of darkness. In order to make even an attempt 
 to clear -himself, it would be necessary to tell the 
 story of the two figures he had seen in the Ala- 
 meda and which he had followed to the gate in the 
 rear of the Fernandez del Valle house. But how 
 was it possible to tell such a story as this, even if 
 he were able to prove the existence of the man who 
 had so quickly disappeared, since it placed him in 
 the position of a spy — ^a position which he now 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 239 
 
 blushed to recall, wondering what madness had for 
 the time possessed him — since it added the further 
 proof of his identification of Carmen to that of Don 
 Luis? Clearly, for her sake alone, his lips were 
 sealed, and this, 'which would have been the case 
 under any circumstances, was especially so since the 
 strong impression of her innocence produced by her 
 presence, her manner, her voice, had not faded from 
 his mind. Here in the clear, sober daylight, as in 
 the mysterious shadowy night, he repeated to him- 
 self that he believed her assertion rather than the 
 testimony of his own sight. For, although he as 
 well as Don Luis had been prepared to doubt her 
 by the, suspicions and fears which, setting reason 
 at defiance, her singular likeness to the Marquesa 
 had inspired, it was now, as ever, only necessary 
 for him to hear her speak to forget, in the convic- 
 tion of her lofty simplicity, all these suspicions and 
 fears. He put aside the wild fantasy that one so 
 like herself could only have been the ancestress 
 whom she resembled ; but he did not for an instant 
 doubt her sincerity in believing this — the less be- 
 cause he was not himself free from the same super- 
 stition. For he was, as sure as herself that, whether 
 what he had seen was mortal being or shadow of 
 the dead, the fatality which pursued them was the 
 same — a fatality which plainly and evidently tended 
 to a repetition of the tragedy that had wrecked the 
 life of the woman whose living imstge she was. 
 
 To feel one's self in the grasp of overmastering 
 fate — of a fate which no effort can avert, relentless 
 as that of the Greek dramatists and pitiless as the 
 action of Nature — ^is not a common experience. 
 But it was one which came to Ingraham now. Like 
 an Arab, he said to himself. Kismet. It was in vairi 
 
24Q 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 that he had gone away, that he had put the width 
 of the world between himself and Carmen and the 
 accursed picture that had bewitched them both. 
 His steps had been drawn back by — ^why had he 
 not recognised it? — the same influence that had 
 fallen over him as he stood before the portrait first, 
 the same influence that had now woven around him 
 a net of circumstances which he had no more power 
 to break than one bound hand and foot by a fabled 
 spell of sorcery. 
 
 This being so, there was nothing to do but 
 await the issue of events. With regard to what the 
 first event would be he had not the least doubt. 
 A messenger would come from Don Luis charged 
 with a challenge, which he did not see his way 
 either to accept or decline. To accept would be to 
 acknowledge that he had done him a wrong; to 
 decline would be to incur a stigma of cowardice, 
 and, unless he promptly quitted Mexico, to bring 
 upon himself a public affront which would render 
 a duel unavoidable. He was still revolving in his 
 mind this dilemma, when a knock at the door caused 
 him to say to himself that the hour of decision had 
 come. He walked across the floor and opened it, 
 facing, to his great surprise, instead of one of the 
 friends of Don Luis, the major-domo of the Fer- 
 nandez del Valle household, in his picturesque 
 Mexican dress. Removing a silver-laced sombrero, 
 the man presented to him a large, square envelope, 
 sealed and stamped with the family crest. 
 
 " You will wait for an answer? " Ingraham in- 
 quired, much astonished at such a mode of com- 
 munication. 
 
 " No, senor," the man replied. " Don Luis has 
 left the city. He departed with all the family early 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 24 1 
 
 this morning for his hacienda in Michoacan, leav- 
 ing directions only that I should with my own hand 
 deliver this letter to you. There was nothing said 
 of an answer. I have the 'honour to bid you good- 
 day, senor." 
 
 Ingraham hardly noticed his departure. His 
 words had so filled him with astonishment that he 
 tore open the envelope in haste and drew forth the 
 enclosure. He found these words written on the 
 sheet within: 
 
 " Seiior : It was my intention to have sent you 
 this morning a friend who would arrange with you 
 time and place for the conclusion of a meeting in 
 which we were unhappily interrupted last night. 
 But cooler consideration has brought me to a de- 
 cision, in which I hope you will acquiesce, to avert 
 the scandal which would follow our meeting in 
 Mexico, by arranging that it shall take place else- 
 where. I leave this morning with my family for 
 Las Cruces. I shall be absent for a length of time 
 barely sufficient to go there and myself return to 
 the capital, when I shall at once send a trusted friend 
 to learn from you at what place — the farther the 
 better — you will meet me. Hopiiig that I am not 
 mistaken in trusting thus to the sense of honour 
 of the man whom I once held as a friend, and whom 
 I can not conceive to be a coward as well as a 
 traitor, I am, etc., etc., 
 
 " Luis Fernandez del Valle." 
 
 "Well, Seiior Don Luis Fernandez del Valle," 
 said Ingraham, smiling faintly over the last words, 
 " you are determined to make it impossible for me 
 to avoid meeting you. Yet I have no desire what- 
 
242 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 . ever to kill you, and I certainly do not intend that 
 you shall kill me if I can prevent it. Here at least 
 is a respite, and if I could but find the man who 
 disappeared last night — fer it is too much to believe 
 that he was a spectre! But I have positively no 
 means of identifying him, thanks to my cursed folly 
 in failing to face him boldly in the Alameda. If I 
 believed that the woman was Carmen, I should 
 know well where to find him " — and his thoughts 
 turned darkly to Rivera; " but if it were some one 
 else, what possible clue to his discovery have I? 
 If I could communicate with her, she might learn 
 who of her household was absent on that night. But 
 without such a suggestion, with the fixed delusion 
 in her mind that it was a supernatural appearance, 
 what hope is there of her making any inquiry, any 
 effort to clear herself? And he has taken her to 
 Las Cruces ! " For the first time the full meaning 
 of this flashed upon Ingraham's mind, bringing with 
 it again the crushing sense of a mysterious, unre- 
 lenting fate which had been for a few minutes for- 
 gotten. "To Las Cruces! That means to hope- 
 less imprisonment, to the fate of the Marquesa over 
 again! Well, my task is plain now. I have prom- 
 ised her help, and she shall have it. Nothing short 
 of open insult shall force me to meet this man and 
 risk my life until I have offered her the opportunity 
 to clear herself if that be possible; if not, to seek 
 a refuge where his cruelty can not reach her. To- 
 morrow I, too, will start for Michoacan. If it is 
 fate which has brought us to this point, hereafter 
 I will be my own fate — ^and hers." 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 243 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Not until after he had taken this resolution did 
 it occur to Ingraham to consider how he could, for 
 a time at least, rid himself of the companionship of 
 Brooke. Since it was by his own desire and ar- 
 rangement that they were engaged to leave Mexico 
 together the next morning, there was difficulty in 
 finding an excuse for overturning this arrangement 
 and taking his departure alone. . But he was ncine 
 the less firmly resolved to do so, nor did he trouble 
 himself very much about the excuse which he should 
 make, trusting to the inspiration of the moment 
 when he announced his change of plan. It was 
 noon before he met Brooke, it having been long 
 understood between them that neither should in- 
 trude upon the other in the morning, but a single 
 glance at the young man's countenance was then 
 sufficient to indicate that something of a disturb- 
 ing nature had occurred to him also. Ingraham, 
 who was by this time in possession of that calmness 
 of mind which is the result of fixed decision, at once 
 perceived these signs of discomposure when the tall 
 figure, pausing in the open door of his anteroom, 
 obstructed the flood of brilliant sunshine pouring 
 in, and forced him to look up from the writing on 
 which he was engaged. 
 
 " What is the matter? " he asked. 
 
 "Why should you think that anything is the 
 matter? " Brooke returned, making an unsuccess- 
 ful attempt to change his expression as he sat down. 
 " I have been very much surprised — that is all. 
 You'll agree with me that it is a little singular that 
 
244 "^^^ PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 just when we had valiantly and virtuously made 
 up our minds to put temptation behind us by tak- 
 ing refuge in flight, the temptation should suddenly 
 and unexpectedly remove itself. In other words, 
 the whole of the Fernandez del Valle have this 
 morning left Mexico." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Ingraham, with the command 
 of countenance which it is not difficult to maintain 
 when listening to news already well known. " It 
 has not taken you long to discover the fact. How 
 did you learn it? " 
 
 " I met Rivera just now and heard it from 
 him." 
 
 Despite his self-command, a flash came into In- 
 graham's eyes. Rivera was the man on whom (if 
 he could believe the woman to have been Carmen) 
 his suspicions rested, and this intelligence roused 
 them at once. But he controlled his voice and man- 
 ner, though he could not control his glance. 
 
 " And how did Rivera acquire his information 
 so soon? " he asked. 
 
 " Easily enough. A note from Don Luis to his 
 father stated that urgent personal business called 
 him away, and requested Senor Rivera to make 
 the proper excuses and explanations for his ab- 
 sence. I shouldn't think their legislative duties 
 amount to much, but he is a senator, you know — 
 Don Luis, I mean — and so is Seiior Rivera." 
 
 " Yes," Ingraham assented, saying to himself 
 that this accounted for Rivera's knowledge. Of 
 course Don Luis could not leave his official duties 
 without some formality of the kind, and the elder 
 Rivera, being one of his closest friends, was natur- 
 ally the person whom he would delegate to make 
 the proper explanations of his absence. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 245 
 
 " Was Don Alfredo certain that all the family 
 are gone? " he inquired, after a moment. 
 
 " Perfectly certain," Brooke replied. " All, 
 without exception, are gone. The curious thing 
 about it is that there was not a word uttered of such 
 an intention on the part of any one, last night. Don 
 Alfredo and 1 were both there — ^at the Fernandez 
 del Valle house, I mean — and it is difficult to under- 
 stand either a reticence so extreme or a resolution 
 so sudden." 
 
 " Oh, as for that," said Ingraham, " they might 
 have had some reason for keeping their own coun- 
 sel, or an urgent message of some kind might have 
 reached Don I^uis after your departure. His moth- 
 er and elder children are at the hacienda in Michoa- 
 can, and one of them may be ill. Did you " — he 
 endeavoured to make his voice careless — " leave the 
 house with Don Alfredo last night? " 
 
 " No," Brooke answered, with a quick glance. 
 " I left earlier than he did. Why do you ask? " 
 
 " From curiosity merely. And did not Doiia 
 Ines give you even a .hint of her coming depart- 
 ure?" 
 
 " Not the slightest; and that is what seems most 
 strange." 
 
 " It would be very strange," Ingraham agreed, 
 " if the departure had not been, as I suggest, unfore- 
 seen and unprepared for. Now, what shall we do? 
 It seems hardly worth while to fly from a tempta- 
 tion that, as you remark, has removed itself. So 
 perhaps you may wish to remain longer in Mexico, 
 although its principal attraction has departed." 
 
 " I was about to propose something of the kind," 
 said Brooke, with a little hesitation. " I don't like 
 to leave Mexico so abruptly; that is, I think it 
 
246 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 would be agreeable to prolong our stay a! little. 
 You haven't any particular desire to leave, have 
 you?" 
 
 " N — o," replied Ingraham, hesitating in turn. 
 " I am quite ^yilling to remain longer, if you don't 
 mind being left alone for a few days while I go ofiE 
 on a sketching-tour. I haven't done any work of 
 the kind for some time, but the man who wouldn't 
 feel his artistic impulses roused in Mexico must have 
 no artistic impulses at all. No doubt you'll be able 
 to amuse yourself very well without me, and I don't 
 think it would amuse you at all to accompany me." 
 
 " Oh, there'll be no difificulty in amusing my- 
 self," Brooke replied. " Where do you think of 
 going? " 
 
 " To Toluca, I think. I have long intended to 
 do some sketching in that lovely valley. I shall be 
 over there for a few days, and then on my return we 
 will settle our plans definitely." 
 
 " Very well," replied Brooke, so readily that it 
 appeared as if, for some reason, he found this pro- 
 posal rather a relief than otherwise. " When do 
 you think of going? " 
 
 " There is no reason for delay. Since our de- 
 parture is deferred, I shall take this afternoon's 
 train for Toluca." 
 
 It was not at Toluca, however, but at Acambaro, 
 where the railroad to Morelia connects with the 
 main line of the Mexican National, that Ingraham 
 left his train that night. He disembarked, the most 
 irreproachable of gringo travellers in manner and 
 attire, but when he appeared the next morning the 
 landlord of the hotel where he had spent the later 
 portion of the night opened his eyes in astonish- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 247 
 
 ment. The gringo was transformed into a Mexican, 
 exact in every point of national costume. Tight- 
 fitting breeches of dark cloth, short, braided jacket, 
 folded sarape laid across the shoulder, broad somr 
 brero, all was perfect, even to the pointed shoes and 
 the nicotine-stained finger-ends. 
 
 " Ah, sefior," the landlord could not refrain from 
 saying, " you are a complete Mexican this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " It is a very convenient dress when one is going 
 out into the country, and enables one to avoid- re- 
 mark in places where foreigners are seldom seen," 
 Ingraham replied, carelessly. 
 
 His adoption of the dress had been for this pur- 
 pose, as well as to avoid recognition in Morelia. 
 It was hardly possible, he thought, that after three 
 years any one there would remember his face suffi- 
 ciently to know him in this semi-disguise. He was 
 careful, however, not to go to the same hotel where 
 he had stayed before, and he did not register his 
 name for the few hours he remained. 
 
 The next day found him again in Patzcuaro, 
 where he learned, by apparently casual inquiry, that 
 the Fernandez del Valle party had passed through 
 on their way to Las Cruces. His plans for his own 
 movements were all carefully made, and he now 
 proceeded to put them in execution. From Patz- 
 cuaro he obtained an Indian canoe to convey him 
 by the lake to' Tzintzuntzan, the village famous in 
 ancient times as the Tarascan capital of Michoacan, 
 and as the primitive see of the saintly and heroic 
 Bishop of Quiroga, while in degree, at least, it is 
 famous in modern times from the remarkable ro- 
 mances that certain travellers have woven about the 
 noble " Entombment " of Titian which is preserved 
 
248 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES.. 
 
 here, treasured jealously by the people, not from 
 superstitious reverence, nor yet from any knowl- 
 edge of its artistic value, but because it is associated 
 with the memory of the great bishop (having been 
 sent to him by Philip II), to whom they owe a debt 
 of gratitude which after the lapse of three centuries 
 they still pay in undying love and reverence. 
 
 Having during his stay at Las Cruces made an 
 excursion across the valley to this village, Ingraham 
 knew that it was not very far from the hacienda, 
 and selected it, therefore, as his point of approach. 
 Thence he passed over to the neighbouring town 
 of Iguatzio, and after much trouble succeeded in 
 obtaining there a mount — a very sorry horse which 
 he purchased outright for the sum of twenty dollars. 
 Thus equipped, and gratified to find that his Mexi- 
 can dress protected him from the curious observa- 
 tion which in remote districts follows a foreigner, 
 he set forth, turning his face inland, and crossing 
 the valley toward the blue, well-known outline of 
 the hills which rose above Las Cruces, and which, 
 like friendly sentinels, seemed beckoning him from 
 afar. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 It was dusk in the chapel of Las Cruces by the 
 time the Evening Rosary was finished, but the can- 
 dles lighted upon the altar for Benediction threw 
 their soft radiance, over the kneeling groups on the 
 pavement beyond the. altar rail — groups composed 
 chiefly of women with draped heads and delicate 
 brown faces uplifted toward the centre of the radi- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 249 
 
 ance, of many children, and of a few men who had 
 dropped in at the end of their day's toil to lift their 
 worn hands in touching supplication toward " El 
 Santisimo," as the Mexicans call the sacred Host. 
 
 Among these men was one who knelt like the 
 rest, but withdrawn as far as possible from the light 
 of the candles into a shadowy corner formed by one 
 of the lesser altars which in Mexican churches are 
 generally placed along the sides of the nave. From - 
 this dusky nook he could, himself unobserved, scan 
 closely the figures and faces around him, and he had 
 soon after his entrance perceived the person whom 
 he sought. Carmen was kneeling near the rail 
 which divided the sanctuary from the body of the 
 chapel, and the radiance from the altar fell full upon 
 her face, framed in the black drapery which sur- 
 rounded it. While strikingly noble and lofty, there 
 had been nothing very spiritual in the character 
 of her beauty since its development; but, observ- 
 ing her closely now with that keen artist glance 
 which perceives so much, Ingraham was struck 
 by the fact that her face seemed lifted into a higher 
 beauty than it had ever possessed before. Like 
 fine carving in ivory, the exquisite outlines of her 
 features showed in the midst of the severe black 
 folds which shrouded her; under their level brows 
 her eyes burned with a sorrowful splendour, and 
 her nobly-cut mouth was set in lines of proud yet 
 pathetic endurance. Seen thus, she might have 
 been painted for some wronged queen who had car- 
 ried her majesty and her sorrows to the cloister. 
 
 Little, besides that face, did Ingraham observe 
 during the progress of the services. The shrill, 
 sweet singing of the boys who formed the choir 
 floated unnoticed around him, and he heeded noth- 
 
2SO THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 ing that went on until, the Benediction over, the 
 sacristan began to extinguish the candles on the 
 altar, and the people to rise and move toward the 
 outer door. He remained quietly in his corner 
 until almost every one had left the building, only 
 a few dark figures remaining here and there scat- 
 tered over the pavement in, the obscurity which 
 was now lighted only by the lamps hanging on each 
 side of the sanctuary, when he rose, and, moving 
 forward, knelt again near a side door through which 
 he knew that Carmen would go out, since it led 
 directly into the court of the house. Here he waited, 
 secure in the fact that she must pass close by him 
 in order to leave the church. 
 
 It was necessary, however, to exercise some 
 patience in this waiting, for it was long before she 
 moved. At length she rose, drew still closer around 
 her the black mantle which enshrouded her — ^just 
 such a mantle as that figure had worn which In- 
 graham followed through the moonlit streets of 
 Mexico — and crossed the church, with a grace as 
 incomparable as it was unconscious, toward the 
 door by which he waited. Having taken thought 
 of every detail, he had placed himself where he 
 knew that she would pause at least an instant be- 
 side a stone basin containing holy water. He was 
 not mistaken. She paused, so close to him that her 
 draperies touched him, and as she dipped her fin- 
 gers into the water he breathed rather than said, 
 in the lowest possible whisper — 
 
 " Do not speak, nor look at me, but take the 
 paper which I will put into your hand." 
 
 She started at the first sound of his voice, but 
 retained her self-possession perfectly and blessed 
 herself with one hand while with the other she took 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 251 
 
 the paper which he slipped beneath her mantle. He 
 felt her fingers close upon it, then her draperies 
 swept by him, the door opened at her touch and 
 closed again behind her. 
 
 In order to avert any possible suspicion, he 
 waited a Uttle longer in the church, then rose, and 
 passed down the shadowy nave into the outer air. 
 There was a faint stain of colour yet visible in the 
 western sky, but the stars were shining above, as 
 he stepped through the doorway and felt the chill 
 touch of the Mexican night. Drawing his zarape 
 closely up about his face — for he did not wish to 
 be recognised by any of the servants of the house 
 or labourers of the estate — he turned sharply from 
 the church door and took a path across the fields 
 by which he had come, and which led at a distance 
 of a mile or so into the camino real (highway) that 
 passed through the lands of Las Cruces to a town 
 distant a couple of leagues. 
 
 It was a very small town, a collection of the 
 usual adobe dwellings around a deserted-looking 
 plaza and a picturesque old church, and In- 
 graham's lodgings therein were of the most primi- 
 tive description — a room in a meson (which may 
 be said to resemble an Oriental khan more nearly 
 than any other conceivable house of entertainment), 
 and food of a more eatable quality than might per- 
 haps be imagined, taken at a fonda. But he was 
 not only of the material of which good travellers 
 are made, since he was able even on ordinary occa- 
 sions to treat personal discomforts with contempt, 
 but on the present occasion comfort was something 
 to which he did not give a thought. The one idea 
 which possessed him and directed all his actions 
 was to be near Las Cruces — that is, near Carmen. 
 
252 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 Everything else was subordinate to that; and as 
 he now walked rapidly along the high-road in the 
 clear starlight, seeing on each hand, beyond the 
 stone walls which bounded his way, the wide fields 
 and pastures stretching away to the hills outlined 
 against the deep violet sky, his heart felt almost 
 light, so much was he relieved to have succeeded in 
 his first attempt to communicate with her. Before 
 this, no doubt, she had found an opportunity to 
 read his letter, and knew that she was not left help- 
 less and alone, but that one willing to serve her in 
 any extremity was near and waited only her bid- 
 ding to aid her. It seemed to Ingraham as he strode 
 along through the vast, silent world of outspread 
 plains and heights, delighting in the fresh cool air 
 which was reviving as wine to his fevered and jaded 
 faculties, that he was as one who followed a path 
 marked out for him by a fate inevitable and beyond 
 his control. All his surroundings, all the influences 
 of this remote, primitive world in which he found 
 himself, came to the aid of that deep fount of super- 
 stition which exists more or less in every nature, 
 but especially in the imaginative and artistic. By 
 ways which they knew not, by acts for which they 
 owed no responsibiUty, both Carmen and himself 
 had been brought to this point, whence their road 
 would lead — ^whither? He did not ask, nor did he 
 form a plan. A great sense of calm had taken pos- 
 session of him in the belief that his actions would 
 be directed to their destined end. All that was 
 within his power had been accomplished when he 
 laid his service at the feet of the woman whose life 
 he had so strangely touched and afifected. The rest 
 was with her — or with the fate that had first brought 
 him within the shadow of Las Cruces. 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 353 
 
 The next evening found him again in the di;sky 
 church, beside the holy-water font. Again he 
 watched the beautiful pale face in the light of the 
 candles, the dark, luminous eyes full of sadness, 
 the proud, sweet mouth set in its lines of pain. The 
 knowledge of a friend, a deliverer if she chose, near 
 at hand, had not wrought the change in her aspect 
 for which he had hoped. More than ever she looked 
 like one who, wronged but majestic, asked consola- 
 tion only from God for the injustice of man. She 
 did not once turn her head nor suffer her eyes to 
 stray in the direction where he had told her he 
 would await her answer to his letter, but neither 
 did she keep him waiting as, unconsciously, on the 
 evening before. When the services were concluded, 
 she rose at once and moved across the church to- 
 ward the door near which he knelt. One glance 
 of her eyes met his as she paused to take holy water, 
 and in the same instant extended her hand beneath 
 her drapery. It was a moment's work to meet it 
 with his own and receive a folded paper. No sooner 
 had he taken this than she passed on and the door 
 again closed upon her. 
 
 Ingraham did not permit his impatience to make 
 him forget any precaution in leaving the church, 
 and it was not until he was a mile at least from Las 
 Cruces that he paused in a sheltered spot, and, by 
 the light of one or two of the wax cerillas which, 
 like every smoker, he carried, read what was written 
 on the paper that had been given him. It was but 
 a few lines: 
 
 " With a grateful heart I thank you for your 
 
 desire to aid me," Carmen had written, " but you 
 
 can do nothing for me. Only God can make my 
 
 innocence clear. I beg that you will go away, for 
 
 17 
 
254 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 your presence here exposes us both to great risk, 
 and would be regarded as a proof of that which 
 has been unjustly charged against us, if it were 
 known. So go, I beseech you, go at once; and 
 may God go with you." 
 
 That was all. The tiny taper burned down to his 
 fingers ; he dropped it and stood in the starlit dark- 
 ness asking himself what he should do. Go ! He al- 
 most laughed aloud at the idea. Go, and leave Car- 
 men to her fate, to the isolation, the imprisonment, 
 the cruelty, perhaps, that awaited her? He swore 
 a great oath in his heart that he would never do so. 
 She was not only a creature in need of help — sore 
 need, he felt convinced — but she had upon him a 
 claim deep-rooted in the destiny which had made 
 him her discoverer, almost her creator, in the fate 
 that controlled them both like blind atoms, and in 
 every pulsation of the heart that had been hers since 
 the first day he looked upon her. Go! Not until 
 he had spoken to her face to face, not until he had 
 offered her all that he had resolved upon, not until 
 with her own lips she told him that she preferred 
 captivity to freedom, and pain to such happiness 
 as might yet be hers ! 
 
 And so, though sensible of the risk which he in- 
 curred, the next evening saw him again kneeling 
 in the shadowy church. It was his only way of 
 approaching her, for he had no messenger whom he 
 dared trust. But, aware that, even if he was not 
 recognised, the presence of a stranger could not 
 but be remarked in this hacienda chapel, he de- 
 termined not to appear in it again. He had there- 
 fore prepared a letter, in which, after assuring her 
 that nothing would induce him to go until he had 
 obtained a personal interview with her, he said that. 
 
THJj; I'lCTUKli; Ui*' L,Ab CKUCJCS. 
 
 255 
 
 in obedience to her wishes, he would not come again 
 to the church, but that every evening would find 
 him in the huerta behind, where he should wait in 
 the hope that she would be able to meet him or 
 else convey some message appointing a time and 
 place of meeting. " Run no risk," he said, in con- 
 clusion, " but remember that I shall be there every ■ 
 evening at dusk until you come or send me your 
 commands. The only command I shall not obey is 
 the command to go without seeing you." 
 
 With this missive ready in his hand, he again 
 waited her coming by the holy-water font. As she 
 approached after the services were ended, he ob- 
 served that her ef es sought the spot where he knelt, 
 as if in apprehension of his being there, and when 
 she percei-v^ed him there was no mistaking her 
 glance of keen reproach.- But she did not refuse 
 to take the letter which he slipped into her hand, 
 as she paused beside him fop a moment, and then, 
 as upon the other occasions, passed on and left the 
 church without another glance in his direction. ' 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 It was with a renewal of the now familiar sense 
 of being in the grasp of a destiny over which he had 
 no control that Ingraham found himself again in 
 the well-remembered huerta of Las Cruces — the 
 huerta where Carmen had once met him, where for 
 a few brief moments he had fancied she loved him, 
 and where Don Luis had stepped between them. 
 How that unforgotten scene came back to him as 
 
2S6 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 he stood once more in the spot where it had taken 
 place, the spot where everything was as unchanged 
 as if he had left it the day before, wliere, indeed, half 
 a century might pass and make no change ! Yonder 
 rose the stern, fortress-like walls of the old house, 
 around him were the shaded walks overhung by 
 fruit-trees, and before him was the glorieta, with its 
 brimming basin, and its stone seats gray with age. 
 Everything was so absolutely the same as on that 
 past evening, even to the colour still lingering 
 above the western hills and the sweet sound of sing- 
 ing from the chapel, that he almost asked himself 
 if all that seemed to have occurred in the interval 
 had not been a dream and he was not now waiting 
 for the Carmen of the past to come and hear his 
 story of love? 
 
 But these fancies soon faded under the stern 
 considerations of reaUty. Would Carmen, the Car- 
 men of the present — not a girl free to be woOed and 
 won in all honour and nobleness, but a woman 
 bound by iron bonds of duty, a misjudged and un- 
 happy prisoner — venture to meet him? He hardly 
 dared hope that she would be able to do so on the 
 first evening. It would probably be some time be- 
 fore she could make an opportunity to leave the 
 house unobserved. No matter. He had promised 
 that whenever she came she would find him await- 
 ing her, and, if it were necessary to wait for weeks 
 instead of days, that promise should be kept. He 
 hoped, however, that the period of waiting might 
 not be too much prolonged, for he knew well the 
 danger he ran in every visit to Las Cruces — danger 
 of mquiry and recognition — danger more grave 
 even for her than for him. Had it been foretold 
 to him that he would ever find himself in such a 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 257 
 
 situation, lurking in disguise in another man's gar- 
 den, like a lover in a melodrama or, far worse, a 
 spy, he would have laughed in incredulous scorn. 
 But now he scarcely considered the misconceptions 
 which would attach to him should he be discovered, 
 or gave a thought to the personal danger that men- 
 aced him. Still less did he think of the romanti- 
 cism of his position or its extravagance in other eyes. 
 Little as his life had prepared him for anything of 
 the kind, the day of trifles was over with him and the 
 day of realities had come. Passion in its deep sense 
 and original meaning — not the perverted meaning 
 in which the word is too often used — had seized 
 him in that strong grasp which leaves no room for 
 thought of anything save the two great things which 
 it represents — suffering and sacrifice. For as no 
 true passion ever existed without its throes of suf- 
 fering, so that does not deserve the name in which 
 the thought of self is not annihilated. To noble 
 heights of endurance and of achievement, not to 
 depths of baseness and self-seeking, does passion, 
 God's greatest force in the soul of man, lead those 
 who are able to feel it. And such passion was now 
 in this man's heart — passion in which self was set 
 aside in the thought of another, in the ardent de- 
 sire to serve one whose life, overshadowed by dark- 
 ening fate, seemed interwoven with his own, and 
 who had neither helper nor defender save himself. 
 In what light of quixotic folly his intentions would 
 be regarded by those whose love is low as their 
 faith in all that lifts humanity above the brutes to 
 which it is akin is small, he did not for one instant 
 trouble himself to reflect. The modem world, its 
 standards and its scepticisms, its mockery and its 
 littleness, was very far removed from this life which 
 
258 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES, 
 
 was a survival of other ages, this remote wilder- 
 ness of Nature, this primitive simplicity of man, 
 that made a setting for the drama of his fate. 
 
 And of Carmen's. For, let it be said again, it 
 was of her alone that he thought as he paced the 
 walks where the evening shadows were momently 
 deepening, never losing sight of the fountain-filled 
 space over which dusk and starlight mingled, nor 
 of the walk which led from the direction of the 
 house, and along which, if she came at all, she would 
 appear. But he had so schooled himself to the an- 
 ticipation of disappointment, so settled in his own 
 mind that she would not come on this first even- 
 ing, that it was with a start of surprise, an almost 
 suffocating bound of the heart, that he suddenly 
 saw her approaching. 
 
 For it was herself. There could be no error this 
 time. Shrouded though she was in her black man- 
 tle, the incomparable grace of her movements and 
 the superb dignity of her bearing could not be mis- 
 taken. 
 
 There was about her no air of one who came 
 to a secret tryst, no furtiveness of glance or stealthi- 
 ness of movement. Composedly as if she had been 
 a queen going to her presence-chamber, she passed 
 along the walk and into the open circle, where she 
 paused and glanced around. As she paused, In- 
 graham emerged from the shadows on the farther 
 side and came toward her. They met by the foun- 
 tain, and, as he silently but with a bearing of infinite 
 respect bowed deeply, she held out her hand in the 
 gesture with which one welcomes' a friend. 
 
 " Sefior," she said, arid her clear tones fell like 
 music on his ear, so grave and sweet were they, 
 " I am sorry that the day should have arrived when 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 259 
 
 I can not say that I am glad to see you at Las Cru- 
 ces. Instead I must ask, why have you come? " 
 
 " I have come," Ingraham answered, " to serve 
 you, if you will suffer me to do so." 
 
 "And how," she said, with the same grave 
 sweetness, " should you be able to serve me? There 
 is no way: I have told you that. And by your pres- 
 ence here you do both yourself and me great wrong, 
 and expose us both to great danger. For, because 
 I believe in your desire to serve me, because I be- 
 lieve that you are truly the friend of one who is a 
 wronged and unhappy woman, I have come here to 
 meet you, to thank you for wishing to defend me, 
 and to bid you go and leave me in the hands of God. 
 I have done this at the risk of more than my life, 
 at the risk of such misconception as makes hfe a 
 thing of little worth. And since I could give you 
 no higher proof of my gratitude and my trust, I 
 pray you now to go." 
 
 It is impossible adequately to express the in- 
 finite -dignity and the exquisite gentleness of these 
 words. They were such as made Ingraham in his 
 heart thank God that he had harboured no thought 
 or desire which would have rendered him unworthy 
 of such trust, which would have made him bend his 
 hear before her, a shamed, dishonoured man. In- 
 stead, he looked into the -dark eyes which even in 
 this obscurity were such wells of soft light, and an- 
 swered with the haste of one who feels that his time 
 for pleading may be short. 
 
 " You do me no more than justice," he said. " I 
 have come at every risk because I believe I am 
 your only possible defender. Can you tell me that 
 you do not need a defender? Has not the fate of 
 the Marquesa fallen upon you? Has not the man 
 
26o THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 who SO unjustly judged you from mere appearances 
 also condemned you to imprisonment here, even 
 as she was condemned?" 
 
 " It is true," she answered, quietly. " And if 
 part of her fate has been mine, why not the rest? 
 I was foolish to dream that it would be otherwise, 
 that I could take her place and know only the hap- 
 piness and brilliancy of her lot without tasting its 
 bitterness. I understand better now. The rest of 
 my life is to be spent like hers in the dark shadow 
 of loneliness and shame. Well, the padre says that 
 I must not think of it as fate, but as the will of God. 
 So be it. Fate, or God's will, it is fixed — I know 
 now that it has always been fixed — and there is 
 nothing for me but to endure with the courage 
 which it may please God to give me. And so, again, 
 seiior, I pray you go! " 
 
 "And leave you to such a fate? — to the help- 
 lessness that makes such a fate possible? Never! " 
 cried Ingraham. " I will die upon your threshold 
 first! This is a wilder delusion than that which made 
 you wreck your life and mine — ^for you wrecked 
 both, Carmen — ^when, because of your fancies about 
 that infernal picture, you turned from me to Don 
 Luis. What can I say to you? Do you not see 
 that if you are suffering the fate of that woman, it 
 is only because her story suggested to Don Luis 
 first to doubt and then to condemn you in the man- 
 ner he has chosen? But if she was powerless, you 
 are not. I am here to offer you the power to make 
 your own fate, or to fulfil that which I believe has 
 been ordained for you. I am no more certain that 
 I live than I am certain that I was brought back 
 across half the world for this purpose — ^to do you a 
 service which, as I was strangely moved to tell you 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 26 1 
 
 when we first met after my return, I owe to you as 
 a right." 
 
 " You owe me nothing but some pain, I fear, 
 which when I gave it I was too young and ignorant 
 to comprehend," she replied, sadly. " But since you 
 will not go without further words— though every 
 minute increases the danger of discovery for us 
 both— tell me at once the nature of the service you 
 offer, that I may fitly thank you, if I may not ac- 
 cept it." 
 
 "You must accept it!" he returned, almost 
 fiercely. " You must leave this captivity which is 
 a wrong and an outrage to you! I will make every 
 arrangement for your escape, and place the most 
 ample means at your disposal, if you will leave this 
 place and take your life into your own hands." 
 
 There was a moment's pause — a moment in 
 which her lustrous eyes were bent upon him as if 
 she would read not his face alone, but his inmost 
 soul — before she said, slowly — 
 
 " And then, seiior? What would you propose 
 that I should do then? — after I had left my home, 
 like a guilty rather than an innocent woman? " 
 
 " Rather like a woman too secure in her inno- 
 cence to submit without appeal to insult and con- 
 demnation," he replied, quickly. " Once free, go 
 where you will^ — to your father, if you can trust to 
 his protection; if not, to Mexico, where you must 
 have friends — and prove your innocence to the man 
 who has so harshly judged you. Do not fear that 
 the slanderous world shall have any opportunity to 
 connect your name with mine. I will never ap- 
 proach you; I will even leave the country if yoti de- 
 sire, although it concerns me as well as you that 
 the charge your husband makes should be dis- 
 
262 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 proved. But, as God hears me, it is not of myself 
 that I think, but of you, and all that I ask is to be 
 allowed to set you free — I, who had more than any 
 other to do with the fate that has bound you! Here 
 you can do nothing; you are helpless under injury 
 and false accusation. And if you should escape 
 without my aid, you would be helpless still, for you 
 would be without means. And gold is the talisman 
 that opens all doors. Once I hoped that the wealth 
 with which I am burdened might have opened for 
 you all the doors of life. Instead, it can only open 
 the door of your prison. But you will not deny 
 me this privilege. It is all I ask — to give you free- 
 dom and the power to demand justice. Let me do 
 this, who have been able to do no more ! " 
 
 In the passionate earnestness of his pleading 
 he had taken her hand in both his own and bent 
 toward her, speaking eagerly. Carmen made no 
 effort to withdraw her hand. For one passing in- 
 stant she had doubted him, but now, standing 
 wrapped in grace and dignity as in a garment, she 
 answered, with the grave gentleness of her first 
 manner — 
 
 " I do not know, sefior, why you should give 
 so much thought to my poor fate, unless it be sim- 
 ply from the greatness of your kindness. But, since 
 it is so, let me thank you best by perfect candour. 
 You offer me, with a generosity which I should 
 shame myself if I doubted, the power to leave this 
 which you truly call my prison. But does it not 
 occur to you that I should also be leaving my home 
 — for home and prison both it is to me — and should 
 I not thus appear to establish the truth of the charge 
 made against me? For innocence does not fly. 
 Flight is for guilt; and no act of mine shall ever 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES, 263 
 
 sully my name and that of my child by acknowledg- 
 ing myself guilty of that of which I am accused." 
 
 " But how will you clear your name if you allow 
 yourself to be hopelessly imprisoned here?" In- 
 graham asked. " Do you not see that cruel wrong 
 has broken all bonds of duty ? For the sake of your- 
 self and of your child you should leave this prison, 
 which is no longer a home,, and take steps to dis- 
 cover and to prove who was the woman who en- 
 tered your garden in Mexico disguised as yourself." 
 
 " Who was the woman ! " she repeated, and he 
 saw her shiver slightly. " Ah, who could it have 
 been but her — the Marquesa — ^whose fate I must 
 follow and whose cup of bitterness I must drink ! " 
 
 " Great God ! " he exclaimed, in dismay — for 
 who can reason against delusion? — " do you still 
 entertain that wild fancy? Do you not know that 
 it is superstition — madness " 
 
 " Is it," she interrupted, " greater superstition, 
 greater madness, than to believe what you can not 
 deny, that you and I, both innocent, ' have been 
 drawn nevertheless into the exact reproduction of 
 that ancient tragedy? Remember the scene upon 
 which I came that night when the clash of swords 
 drew me into the garden, and tell me, if you dare, 
 that any merely human agency could have brought 
 such a thing about? " 
 
 "It was strange," he adihitted, "but not so 
 strange as you think. For, whether or not the event 
 was the result of some fate which we do not com- 
 prehend, the circumstances were certainly brought 
 about by human agency. Have you never won- 
 dered how I chanced to be outside your gate on 
 that fatal night? Do you not know that the folly 
 and imprudence — nay, worse— ^which brought me 
 
264 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 there constitute another reason why I claim the 
 right to help you? For I did you a great injus- 
 tice " 
 
 " What? " she demanded, in a quick, imperious 
 voice, her eyes growing larger and more luminous 
 as they flashed upon his own through the deepening 
 twilight. 
 
 " I followed from the Alameda," he answered, 
 slowly, " a woman whom I took for you — for you, 
 do you understand me? How can I ever sufficiently 
 atone to you for that? But she deceived me, as she 
 deceived your husband, by her likeness to you. 
 And she was no shadow, no ghost of the dead. She 
 was living, she was with a man whom I was mad 
 enough not to identify when I might have done so, 
 and she entered your gate. I was in the act of fol- 
 lowing her companion, who walked rapidly away 
 after parting from her, when Don Luis emerged 
 from the garden and encountered me. He had seen 
 her, and he met me: what could he think? " 
 
 " He might have thought," she answered, proud- 
 ly, " that it was easier for circumstances — ^nay, for 
 his very eyes — ^to deceive him, than for me to do so. 
 But he had no faith in me, was ready to beUeve the 
 worst, to charge me with a crime the mere suspicion 
 of which is the last insult to a woman! And you, 
 too, sefior" — she had drawn her hand from him 
 now, and stood erect before him, a noble and ma- 
 jestic figure, whose glance he could not meet — 
 " you, too, believed me capable of falling to such 
 depths. What act had I ever committed, what word 
 had I ever said, that you should have done me such 
 grievous wrong? " 
 
 He felt crushed beneath the poignant keenness 
 of her reproach. " No act or word of yours ever 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 265 
 
 belied you," he answered. " It was my own mad- 
 ness — the memory of the portrait, and the old ac- 
 cursed story " 
 
 " Ah! " she interrupted, with a quick gesture of 
 hands clasped over her heart, " it comes back ever 
 to the same thing — ^the portrait! Say what you 
 choose, my fate is fixed. I, Carmen, may be what 
 I will, but, like her — that woman whose image I 
 am — I must bear always the stigma of having done 
 evil and incurred disgrace. Even you, fhe one 
 friend on whose faith I might have thought I could 
 rely, to whom I have ever spoken out the inmost 
 thoughts of my heart, even you believed it of me! 
 What hope, then, that any other will do me justice? 
 And, this being so, all that remains for me is to bury 
 myself here, in what is a shelter from scorn as well 
 as a prison, until God shall send me relief by death 
 from this body which does me such cruel wrong." 
 
 She hfted her beautiful face with an impassioned 
 movement toward heaven, as if praying for the swift 
 coming of the release of which she spoke, just as 
 a man's dark figure, which had approached unseen- 
 by either, stepped into the open space where such 
 light as yet Ungered fell. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 It was Ingraham who first perceived and recog- 
 nised this figure. He stepped forward instantly, 
 thus placing himself between Carmen and the man 
 who approached. 
 
 " Don Luis," he said, quickly, " suffer me to ex- 
 
266 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 plain my presence here before you form any judg- 
 ment upon it" 
 
 " My judgment is already formed," replied Don 
 Luis, in a voice which indicated that he was hold- 
 ing his fury under control with the utmost diffi- 
 culty. " What explanation can alter the fact that 
 you are here? — ^that while I hastened back to Mexi- 
 co to give you the meeting which no man of honour 
 would have dared to shirk, you came here, like a 
 coward as well as a traitor, to meet this false woman 
 and betray the honour of the house that has given 
 you hospitality! I will listen to no words from you, 
 and, if I did right, I should kill you like-a dog. You 
 have forfeited all claim to be met as a gentleman 
 on equal terms. But for my own sake I will not be 
 guilty of the dastardly act of killing an unarmed 
 man. Defend yourself. If you have no weapon, 
 here is a sword I have brought." 
 
 But Ingraham drew back from the offered blade. 
 " No," he said, resolutely, " you can not again force 
 me into a combat which has no reason to justify 
 it. I have done you no injury. If I had, I would 
 freely give you the utmost satisfaction one man can 
 offer another. But I beg that you will hear me and 
 learn why your wife has consented to meet me." 
 
 " It is unnecessary to tax your ingenuity in false- 
 hood," replied the other, bitterly. " The fact speaks 
 for itself. It was in this very spot that she met 
 you secretly once before, and I — I was mad enough 
 to trust her after that, and give her the opportunity 
 to betray my trust and my honour!" He set his 
 teeth, his eyes gleamed under the dark, bent brows. 
 "Come!" he said, sternly, "defend yourself, or I 
 shall kill you where you stand." 
 
 " Luis," said Carmen, stepping forward — and 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 267 
 
 even at that moment Ingraham was struck with 
 wonder at the dignity and command of her bearing 
 — " whether you will hear Senor Ingraham or not, 
 you shall hear me. You have charged me with the 
 worst offence of which a woman can be guilty, of 
 dishonouring myself and betraying your trust — I 
 say nothing of your love, for had you loved me you 
 would, I think, have had more faith — and of bring- 
 ing shame upon the head of my innocent child. If 
 I had done this thing I should have deserved all 
 that you have said of me, for I should be a traitress 
 to every duty and every obligation of my life. But 
 I solemnly swear, in the presence of God, that I am 
 innocent, and I demand of you the opportunity to 
 prove my innocence. Sefior Ingraham has come 
 here — at the risk of his life, as he well knew — to 
 tell me that you found him at your gate that night 
 in Mexico because he had followed through the 
 streets the woman whom you saw enter, and whose 
 strange resemblance to me struck him as well as 
 you. Neither you nor I made any effort to dis- 
 cover that woman — you because you had no doubt 
 of my guilt, / because I thought the form had been 
 only an appearance. But now I believe that the 
 woman you mistook for me is a living woman, and 
 I ask of.you the simple justice of aiding me to find 
 her." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, for while she 
 spoke it was impossible even for the furious man 
 before her to resist the compelling influence of her 
 voice and manner, which breathed alike the sim- 
 plicity of perfect truth and the loftiness of a soul 
 proudly, conscious of its own integrity. But this 
 effect was brief. When her clear tones ceased, the 
 reaction of passion in the mind of Don Luis was 
 
268 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 stronger perhaps for the momentary impulse to- 
 ward other thoughts. 
 
 " You cover the blackness of your heart and 
 of your conduct with a hypocrisy which might de- 
 ceive an angel! " he cried, turning upon her with 
 a concentration of rage under which a weaker 
 though as innocent a woman might have shrunk. 
 " If this man — of whom you speak truly when you 
 say that he has come here at the risk of his life — 
 knew that it was another woman whom he saw on 
 that night, why did he not then say so, when the 
 truth of his words might readily have, been proved? 
 And was it necessary for him to come here, in dis- 
 graceful secrecy, to tell you what he should rather 
 have told to me, whose right it is to clear your 
 honour, were such clearing possible? Let me hear 
 no more of your falsities. If you have not the 
 courage to avow your guilt, be silent! And go — 
 if you do not wish to see me kill your lover." 
 
 " That," she said, solemnly, " you shall not do. 
 While I live, you shall not kill an innocent man 
 whose only fault is that he has placed himself in 
 peril to serve me." 
 
 , "To serve you!" repeated Don Luis, his fury 
 now bursting all bonds of control. He turned to 
 Ingraham. " If you do not wish me to think you 
 coward enough to shelter yourself behind a wo- 
 man," he said, " you will take this sword and defend 
 yourself." 
 
 " Seiiora," said Ingraham, addressing Carmen 
 earnestly, " I pray you to leave us. I promise you 
 that I will not light your husband if I can avoid it, 
 for I think that when we are alone he will see that 
 it is but just of him to listen to me." 
 
 " How can I leave you? " she asked, wildly, for 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 269 
 
 the first time losing her self-command. " The old 
 tragedy will be repeated. He will kill you, and your 
 blood will be on my head! " 
 
 " On your head it shall be, shameless woman ! " 
 cried Don Luis, maddened by her words and her 
 solicitude for Ingraham's life. As he spoke, he 
 lunged straight at Ingraham with his sword. The 
 action was so rapid, and Ingraham was so entirely 
 without any means of parrying the thrust, that he 
 would undoubtedly have been run through had not 
 Carmen with lightning-like quickness flung herself 
 before him. The lunge was straight and deadly, 
 with all the power of a strong wrist and ah infuri- 
 ated heart behind it, and the blade passed through 
 her body. 
 
 Of the instant that followed, Ingraham had little 
 recollection afterward. It did occur to him to won- 
 der dimly why he had not turned and slain the man 
 who had done the fatal deed, but at the moment he 
 thought only of the woman who had given her life 
 for his, and who without a sound sank backward 
 into his arms, as the swift steel that had pierced her 
 breast was withdrawn. 
 
 With a great cry Don Luis dropped the sword 
 and sprang toward her. "Carmen!" he exclaimed, 
 ni tones of keenest anguish. " Carmen, thou know- 
 est I never meant the thrust for thee! Oh, God! — 
 she is dead ! " 
 
 But she was not dead. As he spqke, and as In- 
 graham endeavqured to stop the blood pouring 
 from the wound with the folds of her mantle, she 
 opened her eyes. 
 
 " The priest! " she gasped. " The priest! And 
 bid bim— bring— witnesses," 
 i8 
 
270 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 Witnesses that she had been murdered, both 
 men thought she meant, but Don Luis uttered no 
 word of protest. Since Ingraham was supporting 
 her and holding back the red tide on which her Hfe 
 was passing away, it was for him to go. He rose to 
 his feet — for he had dropped on the ground beside 
 her — and turned, when — ^what was this? What 
 should bring two dark figures emerging from the 
 dusky alleys and hurrying toward them? Even as 
 he perceived them, one cried out sharply in Eng- 
 lish— 
 
 "My God! we are too late! He has been 
 killed!" 
 
 " Brooke! " exclaimed Ingraham, recognising 
 the voice and lifting his head in what at another 
 time would have been amazement. 
 
 But before Brooke could reply, the man accom- 
 panying him — ^who had paused in terror at sight of 
 the dark group by the fountain — rushed forward 
 with a startled cry and fell upon his knees beside 
 the figure which Ingraham supported. " Mother 
 of God!" he gasped. "It is la niria — it is Doiia 
 Carmen herself!" 
 
 " Miguel," said Carmen, faintly— for it was the 
 faithful major-domo of Las Cruces — " go for the 
 capellan, and bring him quickly. Let him not delay 
 an instant; and return thou with him when he 
 comes." 
 
 " Si, seiiora, si! " the man cried, springing to his 
 feet and flying with the speed of a deer down the 
 shadowy path which led to the apartments of the 
 capellan. 
 
 Meanwhile Brooke had seized Don Luis, whom 
 he met face to face. " If you have murdered my 
 friend," he cried, fiercely, "you shall answer to me!" 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 271 
 
 "Your friend!" repeated the other, in a voice 
 that could hardly have been recognised as his own. 
 " I tried to kill him; but, instead, I have killed my 
 wife! " 
 
 " Doiia Carmen!" cried Brooke, in horror- 
 stricken accents. He fell back, loosing his hold of 
 the other, and at that moment Carmen spoke 
 again. 
 
 "Who," she said, "is this?" 
 
 " It is I, seiiora — Brooke!" replied the young 
 man, bending over her. " Ah, great God, what aw- 
 ful fatality! But this wound — a doctor " 
 
 " It is fatal," she said, stopping him. " I feel 
 that it is. A doctor can do no good. But I am 
 glad that you are here, seiior. God has sent you — 
 in time." 
 
 " In time! " he groaned, bitterly. " Oh, had I 
 but come an hour sooner! I do not know how this 
 terrible thing has come to pass, but I fear that it has 
 been the result of something which occurred one 
 night in Mexico. And if so — if so, how can I ever 
 forgive myself? " 
 
 A hand fell on his shoulder. The next instant 
 he found himself dragged to his feet and again fac- 
 ing Don Luis. "What do you mean?" asked the 
 Mexican, hoarsely. " Speak — if you do not wish 
 me to kill you! What do }rou know of that night 
 in Mexico?" 
 
 " I know that a fearful mistake was made, of 
 which I am in part the cause," the other answered. 
 " I have only lately learned of it, and I have not lost 
 an hour in hurrying here to tell you that the person 
 you saw enter your garden that night was not Dofia 
 Carmen, but her sister." 
 
 There was a moment's pause, for Don Luis 
 
272 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 seemed struck dumb, and it was Carmen who 
 breathed rather than said, " Ines ! " 
 
 " Ihes," answered Brooke, turning again towaird 
 her. " Oh, what can I say of the folly whidh has 
 led to such a tragedy as this! It was only folly. 
 Shfe said that she was tired of being watched and 
 restrained, that she wished to be free like an Ameri- 
 can. We had .played at love-making, and that night 
 she told me to come to the garden gate, where she 
 would meet me for a few moments, as she had sev- 
 eral times done before. When we met, it was I who 
 suggested a moonlight stroll, never dreairiing that 
 she would consent to go. But she was in a mood 
 of wild recklessness: she declared at once that she 
 would go,- and when I hesitated, suggesting that 
 we might meet some one who would recognise her, 
 she laughed, pulled her mantle closely over her 
 head, and answered, ' Then I shall be taken for Car- 
 men. Do you not know we look alike — behind?' 
 God forgive me that I laughed too, for the serious 
 thought of such a possibility never occurred to me. 
 She insisted on going as far as the Alameda. It 
 seems that you " — addressing Ingraham — " fol- 
 lowed us from there, and that you " — ^to Don Luis 
 — " saw her enter the garden on our return. As 
 for me, I left her at the gate and hastened away, 
 knowing nothing of the events which followed, al- 
 though I was very uneasy when I learned the next 
 day that you and all your household had so abrupt- 
 ly left town. But I dared not make even an inquiry, 
 fearing to betray her, and it was not until I received 
 a letter from her, urging me to silence, since she 
 had been seen but ' fortunately had been mistaken 
 for her sister,' that I knew it to be my instant duty 
 to tell the truth. I went to your house, sefiof. I 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 273 
 
 learned there that you had just left again fof Mo- 
 relia. I coupled this with Ingraham's mysterious 
 absence — for Doiia Ines also told nle in her heart- 
 less letter that I had been mistaken for him — and 
 I hurried here as fast as I could travel, fearing some 
 purpose of a hostile meeting. That I have come too 
 late is so terrible that I shall not lift my hand to de- 
 fend myself if you kill me, as you have killed her — 
 this noble and innocent lady! " 
 
 But of vengeance, even oh one who had been the 
 indirect .cause of such awful wrong, Don Luis had 
 now no thought. He turned and sank upon his 
 knees beside his wife with a cry which those who 
 heard it never forgot. " Carmen!— Carmen! " he 
 said, in agonized tones, taking, her passive hand 
 and covering it with kisses. " How I have wronged 
 thee! Oh, my heart's life, forgive me, forgive me! 
 Blind and mad that I was, how could I doubt thee! 
 Oh, my love^— my love whom I have murdered — 
 say that thoti dost forgive me, miserable man that 
 lam!" 
 
 Ingraham had thought ever since her utterance 
 of the word " Ines ! " that, if not dead. Carmen was 
 so near death that she would not speak again, for 
 her weight Upon his arm, her head upon his shoul- 
 der, had grown more heavy, and it seemed to him 
 that her breathing had well-nigh ceased. But the 
 poignant agony of the appeal now poured into her 
 ear might almost have called back the spirit which 
 had passed beyond the things of time — and hers 
 was still lingering On the border between life and 
 death. Again the dark eyes opened and the faint 
 lips stirred. 
 
 " Gracias a Dios! " she murmured. " The truth 
 is known, and my child will bear no stigma of shame. 
 
274 
 
 THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 
 
 Forgive thee, Luis? Yes, with all my heart. Thou 
 
 wert misled; but if thou hadst believed me Ah, 
 
 that is a poor love which has no faith. But do not 
 grieve over this — accident. It was but an accident. 
 And it is best so. The fatality is accompUshed now ; 
 and it is better the sacrifice of my life than that of 
 an innocent man." 
 
 " And art thou not innocent, my Carmen — my 
 Carmen I " moaned the unhappy husband. 
 
 " The priest! " said Ingraham aside to Brooke. 
 " For God's sake, hasten the priest! " 
 
 But even as Brooke turned, though with no 
 faintest idea where to go, steps and voices were 
 heard approaching, lights gleamed, and a minute 
 later a tall, spare man in a soutane, followed by sev- 
 eral figures, came hurriedly up to them. Even in 
 this moment of horror, Ingraham was struck by his 
 composure — the composure of one long accus- 
 tomed to tragic scenes. He did not ask a question ; 
 one glance at Carmen was enough, and, making the 
 sign of the cross, he began at once to give the abso- 
 lution for the dying. 
 
 But at the sound of his voice, full of solemn mel- 
 ody as he spoke the familiar Latin with his Spanish 
 accent. Carmen's eyes again unclosed. And now 
 she roused herself as she had not roused herself yet. 
 Evidently she had reserved her strength for this 
 effort. 
 
 " Father," she said, interrupting him, " I have 
 something to say which can not wait. Listen to 
 me first. I am dying, but I wish to tell you — you 
 and all here — ^that it is by accident alone I have been 
 killed. My husband had no thought of injuring 
 me, but I flung myself before his sword, and it 
 pierced my breast before he could withdraw it. Re- 
 
THE PICTURE OF LAS CRUCES. 275 
 
 member that I swear this — I who will soon be in 
 the presence of God. And the Seiior Ingraham 
 will tell you that I speak truly. Do you understand 
 me? " — her voice grew weaker — " I swear " 
 
 " I understand you, my child," said the priest. 
 " All who are here have heard and understood you. 
 Have you anything else to tell me? " 
 
 " Nothing, I think," she answered, faintly. " So 
 now the absolution — quick! " 
 
 He was not too quick in giving it. As the last 
 words left his lips. Carmen's spirit passed away. 
 
 THE END.