“I will live with her, and guard her as my own——”
“You may not,” said the priest.
“I am her guardian——”
“You may not—you must marry her.”
“I am old and she is young——”
“The holy Church demands it!”
“I love her not—I——” the lie stuck in his lips.
Late in the afternoon del Torre went to see Dolores. She was at vesper service, and he waited until she came back, pale. He began to speak. “I have heard all,” she interrupted; “Jacinta told me.” And again he saw her blush.
Del Torre groaned; he turned aside. Then he strode back to her, his sabre clanking as he walked. “God forgive me if I err. Dolores, you may not marry this man—you—you must—Señorita Condesa, will you marry me?”
Dolores looked up; she had been red, she was now pale. So blushes lie.