"Of Don Torribio Carvajal."
"Ah," the father cried, in a choking voice "and do you love him?"
"No," she answered; "listen, father, I will conceal nothing from you. No," she continued, laying her hand on her heart, "I do not love Don Torribio, still he occupies my thoughts; why, I cannot say, but his look troubles and fascinates me, his voice causes me a feeling of undefinable pain; he is handsome, his manners are elegant and noble, he has everything belonging to a gentleman of high caste, and yet something in him, something fatal, checks me, and inspires me with invincible repugnance."
"You romantic girl."
"Laugh at me, ridicule me," she said with a tremor in her voice. "Shall I confess all to you, father?"
"Speak with confidence."
"Well, I have a presentiment that this man will be dangerous to me."
"Child," Don Valentine replied, as he kissed her forehead, "what can he do to you?"
"I do not know; but I am afraid."
"Do you wish not to remain here any longer?"