“I’ll show it to you.”
Alison stepped down to his side. He took her hand and laid it in his firm brown palm. Then he looked down into her eyes and smiled. She did not withdraw her hand, but glanced away, afraid to meet his gaze. “It’s a young little hand,” he said, “all pink and white and dimply. It oughtn’t to work too hard.”
“Oh, it doesn’t,” said Alison, laughing. “I do no more than I should, though now there is more to look after; the negroes to see to and my own sewing to do. I don’t want my hands to be idle ones, for Satan finds some mischief still; you know the rest.”
Neal did not answer, but lifted the hand and touched his lips to the rosy palm. Then still holding it in his firm clasp he said, “Come, let’s take a walk. Where’s that little place you used to call your castle in the chaparral? Is it all overgrown?”
“No, for I have had Pedro keep it cleared. Lolita and I are very fond of going there. I think the sun will have dried it up enough for us to go if you want to see it. Wilt come to my castle, Sir Knight? I have matters of grave import to discuss with you.”
Neal chuckled, but became grave before they reached the place. “This is the moat,” said Alison, when they reached the tree, “and this limb is the drawbridge. Now I’m over.” She dropped down lightly and they stood side by side in the circle. “Now,” said Alison, “look up into the tree, or the sky somewhere, till I tell you something.”
“Why not look at you?”
“Because.”
“After such an excellent reason I will look anywhere but at you. All right. Fire ahead, Alison.”
And Alison told him of her meeting with Carlos, of the information he had given her, of her promise to his mother, concluding with: “And that was why I had to see Brigida that day.”