"What is it?"
"Your children, cospita!"
The squatter gave him an ironical glance.
"Oh, por Dios santo!" the monk went on; "I do not refer to your sons, for they are strong and resolute men, who can always get out of a scrape; I do not trouble myself about them at all."
"About whom, then?" the squatter asked, looking at him sharply.
"Why, for your daughter Ellen, canarios! What will become of her, if you die?" the monk said, with that boldness peculiar to timid persons, who wish to know at once if the mine they have fired will crush them. The squatter shook his head sadly.
"That is true," he said, with a glance at his daughter.
The monk smiled—the blow had told, so he went on.
"In destroying yourself, you destroy her," he said; "your obstinacy may cause her death, so take care."
"What is to be done?" the squatter asked.