“But you have said you knew it was Francisco all the time,” interrupted Juanita.
“I did; but when I found the priest would not assist me at first, and admit that the acolyte was a girl, I preferred to let him think I was deceived in giving a fortune to another, and leave it to his own conscience to permit it or frustrate it. I was right. I reckon it was pretty hard on the old man, at his time of life, and wrapped up as he was in the girl; but at the moment he came up to the scratch like a man.”
“And to save him you have deceived me? Thank you, Senor,” said the girl with a mock curtsey.
“I reckon I preferred to have you for a wife than a daughter,” said Cranch, “if that's what you mean. When you know me better, Juanita,” he continued, gravely, “you'll know that I would never have let you believe I sought in you the one if I had not hoped to find in you the other.”
“Bueno! And when did you have that pretty hope?”
“When I first saw you.”
“And that was—two weeks ago.”
“A year ago, Juanita. When Francisco visited you at the rancho. I followed and saw you.”
Juanita looked at him a moment, and then suddenly darted at him, caught him by the lapels of his coat and shook him like a terrier.
“Are you sure that you did not love that Francisco? Speak!” (She shook him again.) “Swear that you did not follow her!”