“Of me? You speak of me?”
“Yes, Señhora, of you. I know the presumption of my words; but bethink you that it is not in such a spirit they are uttered, but as the cry of one humbled and humiliated to the very dust, and who, on looking at you, remembers the link that binds him to his fellows, and for the instant rises above the degradation of his sad condition.”
“And it is through me,—by looking at me,—such thoughts are inspired!” said she, in an accent of piercing anguish. “Are you an English youth?”
“Yes, Señhora, as much as an Irishman can call himself.”
“And is this the morality of your native land,” said she, in English, “that you can feel an elevation of heart and sentiment from the contemplation of such as I am? Shame, sir,—shame upon your falsehood, or worse shame upon your principle.”
“I only know you as my day and night dreams have made you, lady,—as the worshipper creates his own idol.”
“But you have heard of me?” said she, speaking with a violence and rapidity that betokened a disordered mind. “All the world has heard of me, from the Havannah to Guajuaqualla, as the poisoner and the forger!”
I shook my head dissentingly.
“It is, then, because you are less than human,” said she, scoffingly, “or you had heard it. But mind, sir, it is untrue; I am neither.” She paused, and then, in a voice of terrible emotion, said, “There is enough of crime upon this poor head, but not that! And where have you lived, not to have heard of La Señhora Dias?” said she, with an hysteric laugh.
In a few words I told her how I had made part of a great gold-searching expedition, and been utterly ruined by the calamity which destroyed my companions.