“And she is always cross, Maria. That austere habit repels every generous emotion, as it defies every expansion of the heart. No, no; you must not be a nun.”
“Well, I will not,” said she.
“You promise me this, Maria?”
“Yes, upon one condition,—that you will come to the 'Placer,' and tell my father all that you have told to me. He is so good and so kind, he 'll never force me.”
“But will he receive me? Will your father permit me so to speak?”
“You saved my life, Señhor,” said she, half-proudly; “and little as you reckon such a service, it is one upon which Don Estavan Olares will set some store.”
“Ah!” said I, sighing, “how little merit had I in the feat! It did not even cause me the slightest injury.”
“I am just as gratified as though you had been eaten by an alligator, Señhor,” said she, laughing with a sly malice that made me half suspect that some, at least, of her innocence was assumed.
From this we wandered on to speak of the journey for the morrow, which I proposed she should make upon “Charry,” while Fra Miguel and myself accompanied her on foot. It was also agreed between us that we should preserve the most rigid reserve and distance of manner in the Friar's presence, rarely noticing or speaking with each other. One only difficulty existed, which was by what pretence I should direct my steps to Aguaverde. But here again Donna Maria's ready wit suggested the expedient, as she said, laughing, “Are you not making a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady 'des los Dolores '?”
“So I am,” said I. “Shame on me that I should have forgotten it till now!”