“He hates me.”
“Hates you?”
“Yes, señor.”
“Such a thing seems incomprehensible. Why does he hate you?”
She hesitated a moment, and then, with a sudden burst of confidence, she explained:
“He insulted me once, señor, and I cut him across the face with a whip. He has told me often that he hoped I might be killed by one of the bulls. He has said he would not lift a hand to save me.”
“The wretch!” cried Frank, in indignation. “I wondered that some one did not rush to your assistance.”
“Barbastro was the one who should have done so, and now you know why he did not.”
The hot blood was in her face. It had cost her something to tell this.
“But it is not Barbastro you have to fear, señor,” she went on, swiftly. “I came here to warn you.”