Thou knowest how he would sit, oh, my uncle, and talk to me of the rare rocks he had seen, and the bears and the evil spirits, and now he comes no longer, my Concho! How is this?
Nothing evil has befallen him, surely ?" and her drooping lids closed half-pathetically.
Miguel's jealousy took fire.

"He is drunk, Senorita, doubtless, and has forgotten not only thee but, mayhap, his mule and pack! It is his custom, ha! ha!" The red died out of Carmen's ripe lips, and she shut them together with a snap like a steel purse.

The dove had suddenly changed to a hawk; the child-girl into an antique virago; the spirit hitherto dimly outlined in her face, of some shrewish Garcia ancestress, came to the fore.

She darted a quick look at her uncle, and then, with her little hands on her rigid lips, strode with two steps up to Miguel.
"Possibly, O Senor Miguel Dominguez Perez (a profound courtesy here), it is as thou sayest.

Drunkard Concho may be; but, drunk or sober, he never turned his back on his friend--or--( the words grated a little here)--his enemy." Miguel would have replied, but Victor was ready.