"Yes, about," the other replied, not knowing what he said.
"And for a month," Valentine continued, imperturbably, "you have left your father's side each night to go and make love to the daughter of the man who murdered your sister?"
"My friend," Don Pablo said, painfully.
"Would you assert that it is not true?" the hunter went on hastily, as he bent on him a glance which made him look down: "explain yourself, Pablo—I am waiting for your justification. I am curious to know how you will manage to prove to me that you have acted rightly."
The young man, while his friend was speaking, had time to regain, at any rate, a portion, if not all, of his coolness and presence of mind.
"You are severe," he said; "before accusing me, it would be, perhaps, worthwhile to listen to the reasons I have to offer you."
"Stay, my friend." Valentine said, quickly, "let us not turn from the question, but be frank; do not take the trouble to describe your love to me, for I know it as well as you do—I saw it born and grow; still, permit me to tell you certainly I thought that after the assassination of Doña Clara, this love, which had hitherto resisted everything, would die out. It is impossible to love those we despise. Red Cedar's daughter can only appear to you through a blood-stained cloud."
"Don Valentine," the young man exclaimed, in grief, "would you render that angel responsible for the crimes of a villain?"
"I will not discuss with you the famous theory which lays down that faults and crimes are personal; faults may be so, but in desert life the whole family must be responsible for the crimes of its chief; were it not so, no security would be possible for honest people."
"Oh, how can you speak thus!"