“Masterton,” he repeated.
She tried to pronounce it once or twice desperately, and then shook her little head so violently that a yellow rose fastened over her ear fell to the ground. But she did not heed it, nor the fact that Masterton had picked it up.
“Ah, I cannot!” she said, poutingly. “It is as deefeecult to make go as my guitar with your serenade.”
“Can you not say 'Stephen Masterton'?” he asked, more gently, with a returning and forgiving sense of her childishness.
“Es-stefen? Ah, ESTEBAN! Yes; Don Esteban! BUENO! Then, Don Esteban, what for you sink so melank-olly one night, and one night so fierce? The melank-olly, he ees not so bad; but the fierce—ah! he is weeked! Ess it how the Americano make always his serenade?”
Masterton's brow again darkened. And his hymn of exultation had been mistaken by these people—by this—this wanton child!
“It was no serenade,” he replied, curtly; “it was in the praise of the Lord!”
“Of how mooch?”
“Of the Lord of Hosts—of the Almighty in Heaven.” He lifted his long arms reverently on high.
“Oh!” she said, with a frightened look, slightly edging away from the wall. At a secure distance she stopped. “Then you are a soldier, Don Esteban?”