"No, Don Sylvio, no. I implore you. I do not wish you to return at night."
"Why not?" the young man asked, slightly piqued at this remark.
"I really cannot tell you; but I feel frightened at the thought of your crossing the Pampa alone and by night."
"Oh!" she continued, seeing Don Sylvio about to speak, "I know that you are brave, almost too brave; but gaucho bandits abound in the plain. Do not expose a life which is so dear to me, which is no longer your own, Sylvio; and listen to the warnings of a heart which is no longer mine."
"Thanks, Conchita. Still I have no one to fear in this country, where I am a stranger. Moreover, I never leave the estancia without looking like a theatrical bandit, so covered am I with weapons."
"No matter," Doña Concha continued; "if you love me—"
"If I love you!" he interrupted passionately.
"If you love me, you must take pity on my anxiety, and—obey me."
"Come, come!" said Don Valentine, with a laugh. "On my soul you are mad, Conchita, and your romances have turned your head. You only dream of brigands, ambuscades, and treachery."
"What would you have, father? Is it my fault? The foreboding of a coming misfortune agitates me, and I wish to leave nothing to chance."