“You don’t care for new costumes, Doña de Alva,” remarks Guy dreamily, the beauty of the girl’s pose enchanting him, as well it may, for the young lady wears some soft clinging costume of southern Spain with Moorish effects in it, that outlines her lithe graceful beauty in every curve, and, swept up by one dainty hand, permits a suspicion of ankle so exquisite in proportion and symmetry that poets would dream over it—but this audacious sailor simply loves it.
“No, why should I? I have dozens I never use, and papa would give me a thousand if I were foolish enough to want them,” replies Doña Hermoine, resigning Gitana attitude and sweeping her Moorish jupe upon the floor again. “He gives me everything I ask for.” Then she remarks naively: “You have discovered my name—that I am the daughter of the Viceroy, Captain Guido Amati. You—you see I have discovered your name. Or rather I should say, Major Guido Amati.”
“Major?”
“Yes; promoted since noon!”
“But your father—?”
“Oh, I told him nothing about it. You are absent without leave. Neither did I tell Sancho d’Avila, who is colonel of your regiment in the absence of Romero in Spain. But there was a vacancy, and it was easily granted to Captain Guido Amati, who, I am informed, is the bravest officer in the army, or one of the bravest. That is all that can be said for any man under Alva.”
“Major in Romero’s foot!” gasps Guy, who, during this speech, has been gazing at her in a dazed, startled way.
“Yes, I took the muster-roll of the regiment myself, and saw that Captain was altered to Major.”
“The muster-roll!” murmurs Chester, not believing his ears. [[96]]
“Yes, there are duplicates at the Citadel.”