"But who is he,--not to steal?"
Miguel. "He is that man of Ireland, a good Catholic, at Tres Pinos."
Victor and Manuel (omnes). "Roscommon?"
Miguel. "Of the same. We shall give him a share for the provisions, for
the tools, for the aguardiente. It is of the Irish that the Americanos
have great fear. It is of them that the votes are made,--that the
President is chosen. It is of him that they make the Alcalde in San
Francisco. And we are of the Church like him."
They said "Bueno" altogether, and for the moment appeared to be upheld
by a religious enthusiasm,--a joint confession of faith that meant
death, destruction, and possibly forgery, as against the men who thought
otherwise.
This spiritual harmony did away with all practical consideration and
doubt. "I have a little niece," said Victor, "whose work with the pen
is marvellous. If one says to her, 'Carmen, copy me this, or the other
one,'--even if it be copper-plate,--look you it is done, and you cannot
know of which is the original.
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