“The French,” he answered, “kill, of choice, with nothing but kindness. You, though a Spaniard, my pet, shall have ample proof if you will.”
“I am to come with you?”
“God’s name! There is to be no enforcement.”
“Well, you have left me little choice. Already here they had looked upon us with suspicion, and, if I remained alone, would doubtless kill me. I do not want to die—not yet. What must be must. The king is dead, live the king!”
He was enchanted with her vivacity. He took her up before him on his saddle, and chuckled listening to the feverish chatter with which she seemed to beguile herself from memory.
“These jays have no yesterday,” he thought; and said aloud, “You are not Pepino? Now tell me.”
“No, I am Pepa,” she said. “I am only a man in seeming. Alack! I think a man would not forget so easily.”
“Some men,” he answered, and his hand tightened a little upon her. “Trust me, that dead rogue is already forgathering with his succuba.”
By and by he asked her: “How far to Figueras?”
“Twelve miles from where we started,” she answered.