"It is true," the Mexican said with a smile.
"I availed myself largely of your offers, frequently assailing your strong box, and employing your credit whenever the occasion presented itself. Permit me now to settle with you the only part of the debt I can discharge, for I am incapable of repaying the other. Here," he added, taking a paper from his portfolio, "is a bill for 100,000 piastres, payable at sight on Walter Blount and Co., bankers, of Mexico. I am happy, believe me, Don Sylva, to be able to pay this debt so promptly, not because—"
"Pardon me," the hacendero quickly interrupted him, and declining with a gesture the paper the Count offered him, "we no longer understand each other, it seems to me."
"How so?"
"I will explain. On your arrival at Guaymas, you presented yourself to me, bearing a pressing letter of recommendation from a man to whom I owed very great obligations a few years back. The Baron de Spurtzheim described you to me rather as a beloved son than as a friend in whom he took interest. My house was at once opened to you—it was my duty to do so. Then, when I knew you, and could appreciate all that was noble and grand in your character, our relations, at first rather cold, became closer and more intimate. I offered you my daughter's hand, which you accepted."
"And gladly so," the count explained.
"Very good," the hacendero continued with a smile. "The money I could receive from a stranger—money which he honestly owes me—belongs to my son-in-law. Tear up that paper, then, my dear count, and pray do not think of such a trifle."
"Ah!" the count said, in a tone of vexation, "that was exactly what troubled me. I am not your son-in-law yet, and may I confess it? I fear I never shall be."
"What can make you fancy that? Have you not my promise? The word of Don Sylva de Torrés, Sir Count de Lhorailles, is a pledge which no one has ever yet dared to doubt."
"And for that reason I have no such idea. It is not you I am afraid of."