The chestnut head was bent a little lower, as the young girl nervously twisted her fingers in her lap.
“Then I saw him again—and—again,” she went on hesitatingly. “Of course I spoke to him, to—to—find out what he wanted; but you know, Dick, I cannot speak Spanish, and of course he didn't understand me, and didn't reply.”
“But his manner, his appearance, gave you some idea of his meaning?” said Dick suddenly.
Cecily's head drooped a little lower. “I thought—that is, I fancied I knew what he meant.”
“No doubt,” said Dick, in a voice which, but for the superstitious horror of the situation, might have impressed a casual listener as indicating a trace of human irony.
But Cecily did not seem to notice it. “Perhaps I was excited that night, perhaps I was bolder because I knew you were near me; but I went up to him and touched him! And then, Dick!—oh, Dick! think how awful—”
Again Dick felt the thrill of superstitious terror creep over him. “And he vanished!” he said hoarsely.
“No—not at once,” stammered Cecily, with her head almost buried in her lap; “for he—he—he took me in his arms and—”
“And kissed you?” said Dick, springing to his feet, with every trace of his superstitious agony gone from his indignant face. But Cecily, without raising her head, caught at his gesticulating hand.
“Oh, Dick, Dick! do you think he really did it? The horror of it, Dick! to be kissed by a—a—man who has been dead a hundred years!”