There came an evening when there were mutterings up among the hills. The lightning pranked gayly about the low-hanging clouds. Occasionally a report among the far-distant peaks broke the phenomenal stillness.

Felisa lounged within the hammock which swung across the veranda corner. It was very dark, the only lights being those gratuitous ones displayed by the cucullas as they flew or walked about by twos or threes. At each succeeding flash of lightning Felisa showed increased nervousness. Her hand sought Beltran's, and he took it in his and held it close.

"See, Felisa! I will get the guitar, and we will sing. We have not sung of late."

Felisa clasped her hands across her eyes and burst into tears. Beltran was kneeling at her feet in an instant.

"What is it, my Heart? What is it? Do not sob so."

"I am afraid, afraid!" sobbed Felisa. "All is so mysterious. There are queer noises in the ground! Hear those hissing, rushing sounds! Cousin! cousin! What is it?"

"You are nervous, little one. We often have such storms in the mountains. It may not come this way at all. See, here is the guitar."

He patted the small fingers lying within his own, then stretched out his hand for the guitar, hanging near. He swept his fingers across the strings.

"What shall we sing?" he asked, with a smile in his voice. Volatile as a child, believing that which she wished to believe, Felisa sat upright at the first strain of music. She laughed, though the drops still stood upon her cheeks, and hummed the first line of "La Verbena de la Paloma."

"I will be Susana," she said, "and you shall be Julian. Come now, begin! 'Y Á los toros de carabanchel,'" she hummed.

The faint light from the lantern hanging in the comidor showed to Felisa the look in Beltran's eyes as he bent toward her.

"I do not like you, my little Susana," he said, bending close to her shoulder, "because you flout me, and flirt with me, and break my poor heart all to little bits. Still, we will sing together once more."

"Once more? Why do you say once more, cousin?" asked Felisa, apprehensively. A shadow had settled again over her face.

"Did I? I do not know. Come now, begin." His voice was lowered almost to a whisper, as he sang the first lines of the seductive, monotonous little Spanish air. The accompaniment thrilled softly from the well-tuned strings.

he sang.

Her high soprano answered him:

Beltran resumed:

"'Lo sup—li—que,'" he repeated, with slow emphasis.

Felisa laughed, shook her head coquettishly, and answered as the song goes.

Then,

sang Julian. "Who is he, little Felisa? Is there any whom I need fear?" He dropped his hand from the strings, and seized the small one so near his own.

"I know a great many young men, cousin, but I will not own that there is a guapo among them. And this I tell you now, that I shall go to la Verbena with whom I will, if ever I return to Sunny Spain."

she sang again defiantly, her thin head-notes rising high and clear. Was there no memory in Beltran's mind for the contralto voice which had sung the song so often on that very spot—a voice so incomparably sweeter that he who had heard the one must wonder how Beltran could tolerate the other.

Agueda was seated half-way down the veranda alone. She could not sit with them, nor did she wish to, nor was she accustomed to companionship with the serving class. She endeavoured to deafen her ears to the sound of their voices. She would have gone to her own room and closed the door, but it was nearer their seclusion than where she sat at present, and then—the air of the room was stifling on this sultry night. She glanced down toward the river, where the dark water rolled on through savannas to the great bay—a sea in itself. She could distinguish nothing; all was black in that blackest of nights. She dared not go forth, for she felt that the storm must soon burst. She sat, her head drooped dejectedly, her hands lying idly in her lap. Uncle Adan joined her, the lantern in his hand showing her dimly his short, dark form. The manager looked sourly at his niece, and cast an angry glance in the direction of the two at the corner of the casa. He had suddenly awakened to the fact that Agueda's kingdom was slipping from her grasp, and if from hers, then from his also. Should this northern SeÑorita come to be mistress here at San Isidro, what hold had he, or even Agueda herself, over its master? He spoke almost roughly to Agueda.

"Go you and join them," he said. "Go where by right you belong."

Agueda did not look at him. She shook her head, and drooped it on her breast. A sudden flash of lightning made the place as bright as day. Uncle Adan caught a glimpse of that at the further corner which made him rage inwardly.

"Did you see that?" he whispered.

"No," said Agueda. "I see nothing."

"I have no patience with you," said Uncle Adan. He could have shaken her, he was so angry. "Had you remained with them, as is your right, some things would not have happened."

He left her and went hurriedly toward the stables. Presently he returned. Agueda was aware of his presence only when he touched her.

"The storm will be here before long," he said. "Can you get him away without her? Anything to be rid of those northern interlopers."

"What do you mean?"

"Call him away, draw him off. Tell him to come to the rancho—that I wish to see him about preparations as to their safety. Get him away on any pretext. Leave the others here with no one to—"

"It is not necessarily a flood," said the girl, with a strange, new, wicked hope springing up within her heart.

"It will be a flood," said Uncle Adan. "It is breaking even now at Point Galizza."

For answer Agueda arose.

"Good girl! You are going, then, to tell him—"

"Yes, to tell him—"

"Call him away! I will saddle the horses. I will have the grey at the back steps in five minutes. Tell him that Don Silencio has need of him."

"If the Don Silencio's own letter would not—"

"The grey can carry double. You can ride with him. I will go ahead. The flood is coming. It is near. I know the signs."

Agueda drew away from the hand which Uncle Adan laid upon her wrist.

"Let me go, uncle," she said.

Uncle Adan released her.

"The flood will last but a day or two," he whispered in her ear, "but it will be a deep one. All the signs point to that. We have never had such a one; but after—Agueda, after—there will be no one to interfere with you—with me, if—"

Agueda allowed him to push her on toward the end of the veranda, where the two were still singing in a desultory way.

"I shall warn them," she said.

"Him!" said Uncle Adan, in a tone of dictation.

"I shall warn them," again said Agueda, as if she had not spoken before.

"Fool!" shouted Uncle Adan, as he dashed down the veranda steps and ran toward the stables. "And the forest answered 'fool!'"

Agueda heard hurrying footsteps from the inner side of the veranda. Men were running toward the stables. She drew near to Beltran. The faint light of the lantern in the comidor told her where the two forms still sat, though it showed her little else. She laid her hand upon his shoulder, but she laid it also upon a smaller, softer one than her own. The hand was suddenly withdrawn, as Felisa gave an apprehensive little scream.

"What do you want?" asked Beltran impatiently, who felt the warring of two souls through those antagonistic fingers.

"You must come at once," said Agueda, with decision. "The storm will soon burst."

"Nonsense! We have had many sultry nights like this. Where do you get your information?"

"My uncle Adan says that the storm will soon burst. He has gone to saddle the horses."

Felisa gave a cry of fear.

Beltran turned with rage upon Agueda. A flash of lightning showed her the anger blazing in his eyes. It also disclosed to her gaze Felisa cowering close to him.

"How dare you come here frightening the child? Your uncle has his reasons, doubtless, for what he says. As for me, I am perfectly convinced that there will be no storm—that is, no flood."

"I beg of you, come!" urged Agueda.

"Oh, cousin! What will become of us? Why does that girl fear the storm so?"

"There will be no storm, vida mia, and if there is, has not the casa stood these many years? Agueda knows that as well as I."

Agueda withdrew a little, she stood irresolute. She heard the sound of horses' feet, she heard Uncle Adan calling to her. She heard Don NoÉ calling to Eduardo Juan to bring a light, and not be so damned long about it. Old Juana called, "'Gueda, 'Gueda, honey! come! Deyse deat' in de air! 'Gueda!"

There was a sudden rush of hoofs across the potrero, and then the despairing wail from Palandrez, "Dey has stampeded!" She heard without hearing. She remembered afterward, during that last night that she was to inhabit the casa, that all these sounds had passed across almost unheeding ears. She ran again to Don Beltran.

"Come! Come, Beltran, dear Beltran," she said. "The river is upon us!"

She wrung her hands helplessly. It seemed to her as if Beltran had lost his power of reasoning.

"How dare she call you Beltran?" said Felisa.

There came a crash which almost drowned the sound of her voice, then a scream from Felisa, intense and shrill. Agueda heard Beltran's voice, first in anger, then soothing the terrified girl again, shouting for horses, and above it all, she heard the water topple over the embankment, and the swash of the waves against the foundations of the casa.

She ran hurriedly and brought the lantern which hung within the comidor. When Felisa opened her eyes, and looked around her at the waste of waters, she shrieked again.

"How dare you bring that light? Put it out!" ordered Beltran.

"We must see to get to the roof," answered Agueda, with determination.

"The roof! The water is not deep. See, Felisa, it is only a foot deep. The grey can carry you and me with safety."

"Does not the SeÑor know that the horses have stampeded?" said Agueda. "Our only hope of safety now lies upon the roof. We must get to the roof. See how the water is already getting deeper."

And now, Agueda, her listlessness gone, ran into the casa and seized upon what she knew was necessary for a night in the open air. Beltran followed her into the hall. He laid his hand upon her shoulder, and shook her angrily. His judgment seemed to have deserted him.

"Why did you not warn us?" he said. "Was it a part of your plan to—to—"

"My plan!" said Agueda. "Have I not begged you? I could have gone—Uncle Adan told me—"

Beltran seized the lantern and ran out and along the veranda to where Felisa stood clinging to the pilotijo. She was crying wildly.

As Beltran approached, the light of his lantern revealed to Felisa more fully the horror of her surroundings. A fierce wind had arisen in a moment, and was beating and threshing the trees, flail-like, downward upon the encroaching river. Felisa turned upon Beltran in fury. She pointed with tragic earnestness to the waters which now surrounded the casa, and which had assumed the proportions of a lake. A thin stream was reaching, reaching over from the edge of the veranda; its searching point wetted her shoe.

"You should have told me that such things happen in this barbarous place! You pretend to love me, and to keep me with you, you keep me ignorant of my danger, and now I must die. I must be drowned far away from my home in a savage land, all because you pretend that you love me! Oh, God! I am so young to die! So young to die!"

Beltran enfolded the girl in his arms.

"You shall not die. There is no danger of dying. We will go up on the roof. See! here are the steps. You will behold a wonderful sight to-night. You will laugh at your fears to-morrow."

Beltran urged her toward the ladder as he spoke.

"Agueda and I have spent more than one night up there, have we not, Agueda? She will tell you that there is nothing to fear. Agueda, tell my cousin that there is nothing to fear."

"I did not know what there was to fear," said Agueda in a low voice.

Felisa was crying bitterly, as Beltran aided her up the lower steps of the ladder. Agueda followed Beltran and Felisa. She carried some heavy wraps, and struggled up the steep incline unaided. Arrived upon the roof, she found the cousins standing together, Beltran's arm cast protectingly round the trembling girl, her eyes hid against his breast.

"My cousin is nervous," said he, in a half apologetic tone; for though his intimacy with Felisa had passed the highest water-mark, where cousinship ends and love begins, he had not obtruded his actions or words upon Agueda's notice. But now as he felt the shaking of Felisa's young form against his own, suddenly he seemed to throw off all reserve.

"Vida mia!" he said. "Vida mia! look up, speak to me. Do look. See that faint light in the east! The moon will soon rise. It is a beautiful sight. The Water will go down in a few hours. You will laugh at your fears to-morrow, child. These floods do not last long, do they, Agueda? When was the last one? Do you remember, Agueda?"

"Yes, I remember," answered Agueda.

"Come, then, and tell her. You can comfort her if you tell her how little there is to fear."

"I do not think that I shall comfort her," said Agueda. She glanced at the refuge behind the chimney, and then back at Beltran. "It was one long year ago," she said.

He turned away. "Come, Felisa," he said. "There is shelter from this wind behind the old chiminea."

He guided her along the slight slope of the roof. The wind was rising higher with every moment. It howled down from the hills; it bent and slashed at the treetops; it caught Felisa's filmy gauzes and whirled them upward and about her head.

Beltran half turned to Agueda.

"Give me the cloak," he said. He took it from her and enveloped Felisa in it, then led her to the safe shelter of the broad old chimney. Behind it was a figure upon his knees. It was Don NoÉ. He was praying with the fervour of the death-bed repenter.

Felisa, with a return of her flippant manner, laughed shrilly.

"The truly pious are also unselfish, papa. Give us a little shelter from this searching wind."

"Oh, do not! Do not! If I move, I shall fall! You will push me off!" and Don NoÉ continued petitioning Heaven in his own behalf.

Agueda was left standing in the centre of the roof. Palandrez and Eduardo Juan, who had followed the SeÑores to this their only refuge, were lying flat upon their faces. They held a lantern between them—a doubtful blessing, in that it illumined with faint ray the gloom and horror below, but it told so little that the possibility seemed more dreadful than the reality was at the moment.

"Lay down, SeÑo'it' 'Gueda," called Eduardo Juan. "Lay yo' body down."

A sudden gust of wind forced Agueda to run. She guided herself to the chimney, and was held against it. Her garments fluttered round its corners, striking Beltran in the face with sharp slaps and cracks. She could not intrude upon that shelter. Her place was now upon the hither side. She threw herself flat upon her face, as Palandrez had suggested, her head above the ridge pole, her feet extended down the slight incline, and clutched at a staple in the roof, placed securely there for just such a night as this.

There were no stars; there was no moon. Yet it must rise soon.

Suddenly the lantern was overturned and its light extinguished, making more ominous the sound of water rising, rising, rising! It lapped and played about the pilotijos. It must be half-way up the veranda posts by now. It eddied round the corners of the casa. It forced its way through the weak places. One could hear it tearing and ripping at unstable portions of the house, as it flowed through the interior. Grinding noises were heard, as great roots and trunks of trees were borne and swayed by the flood against the walls. They piled themselves up at the southern end, remaining thus for a short, unsteady moment, and then, overpowered by the rush and force of water, they parted company, some to hasten along on one side of the casa, and some on the other.