"I am half asleep," he said. "Is it about those cattle? Joaquin knows as much about them as I do."
Dario had not been asked to sit down, and he stood before Don Roberto feeling a little nervous, and pressing his hand against the mantelpiece.
"I do not wish to speak of cattle, señor."
"No? What then?" The old man's face was flushed with wine, and his shaggy brows were drooping heavily.
"It is—it is about Elena."
The brows lifted a little.
"Elena?"
"Yes, señor. We love each other very much. I wish to ask your permission that we may be married."
The brows went up with a rush; the stiff hairs stood out like a roof above the cold angry eyes. For a moment Don Roberto stared at the speaker as if he had not heard; then he sprang to his feet, his red face purple.
"Get out of my house, you damned vagabond!" he shouted. "Go as fast as God Almighty'll let you. You marry my daughter,—you damned Indian! I wouldn't give her to you if you were pure-blooded Castilian, much less to a half-breed whelp. And you have dared to make love to her. Go! Do you hear? Or I'll kick you down the stairs!"