"Hard? Oh, no! It is not hard to persuade a young man, unless one is a fool. A word or two is enough, and I told him he might become a great libertador like Bolívar and Garibaldi."
Evelyn laughed. She liked Walthew, but he was a very modern American, and the thought of his emulating Garibaldi tickled her. Then, although it was dark, she was aware of a change in her companion's mood. Blanca's pose was different, it had somehow hardened, and her head was lifted high.
"You find this amusing?" she asked in a haughty tone.
"I suppose I do, in a way," Evelyn admitted deprecatingly. "You see, I know my countrymen, and we're not romantic, as a rule."
"Then it is clear you do not know Mr. Walthew. He is young, but he has the spirit of these others, the great libertadores."
"I've no doubt that's true," Evelyn agreed, putting her hand on Blanca's arm. "Indeed, I like and admire him very much."
They turned back to the house presently, on friendly terms, for the Spaniard's anger flares up quickly but soon burns down. Evelyn, however, saw that matters had gone farther than she thought, and she imagined that Walthew would have some trouble with his relatives when he went home.
"But how did you and your father come to meet Mr. Walthew, and what is the Enchantress doing on the coast?" she asked.
"You do not know?" There was a hint of gratified superiority in the girl's tone. "She is bringing us the rifles that we need."
Evelyn asked no more questions, because her talk with Blanca had given her much to think about, and when supper was over she sat outside the tent alone. The moon was rising above the tall sierra that ran in a rugged line across the sky. The air was warm and still, and she could hear water splashing down in the bottom of the ravine. Now and then there was a clatter of hoofs as a messenger rode up, and sometimes an order was followed by a patter of feet. Then for a time everything was silent except for a murmur of voices in the inn.