“I have little more to say, friend, except that if you wish to send any message, I might perhaps be able to take it.”
“You are an angel,” he exclaimed.
“That is another word for messenger, is it not? Continue.”
“Tell her—that if she hears anything of all this business, it isn’t true.”
“On that point she may form her own opinion,” replied Inez demurely. “If I were in her place I know what mine would be. Don’t waste time; we must soon begin to walk again.”
Peter stared at her, for he could understand nothing of all this play. Apparently she read his look, for she answered it in a quiet, serious voice:
“You are wondering what everything means, and why I am doing what I do. I will tell you, Señor, and you can believe me or not as you like. Perhaps you think that I am in love with you. It would not be wonderful, would it? Besides, in the old tales, that always happens—the lady who nurses the Christian knight and worships him and so forth.”
“I don’t think anything of the sort; I am not so vain.”
“I know it, Señor, you are too good a man to be vain. Well, I do all these things, not for love of you, or any one, but for hate—for hate. Yes, for hate of Morella,” and she clenched her little hand, hissing the words out between her teeth.
“I understand the feeling,” said Peter. “But—but what has he done to you?”