"Donna Clotilde would make a dumb man find phrases to express his adoration."
"Fie, Señor! the truly dumb can never speak."
"Querida, even had I been truly dumb, I should have forced out some few speeches for you."
The lady laughed. "Then what a thousand pities, amigo, you were not dumb!"
"Your wit is bright, and I am dull. I must ask your pardon. I do not take you here."
"Why, Señor, had you been dumb, you would have said less. Being vastly glib, you have said too much."
"Still I do not see."
"It is the history of Master Thomas Benson that I speak about. You have given it me a score of times, and it does not tally: you forget the details. At one telling, Master Benson is a rude sailor, and has been bred to the sea from his youth up. Next, as a lad he fought in Continental wars, and lingered in dungeons. Now he rides at Rupert's right hand in English fights, and anon he gets swept away by his own narration, and forgets, and leads the charges himself. Now he pictures his wife settled down in a comfortable farmstead; and a minute hence he will be talking of courts as familiar as though he had never seen aught coarser. 'Twas all prettily told, amigo, and," she added, sweeping a great courtesy, "I thank you for the telling. Nay, I must crave your pardon too. I should not have slipped out the amigo; I should have done credit to my bringing up, and said 'Your Highness'!"
The Prince made no attempt to snatch back his disguise. "Señorita," he said, "whatever may be my quality, I trust I have done nothing that you should withdraw from me the title of friend."
"My Prince," she answered, "I am a Spaniard first and a woman next. You have come into my country as an enemy, and disguised as your own envoy."