“He was a scoundrel, and had already ruined one poor girl,” went on the voice from the tree. The cheap violin was speaking about good and bad mixed together again—and to talk aloud was safe. “But she was no better than she should be—a tobacco-worker. And tobacco for work or pleasure ever ruins a woman, Senor. Look at Seville. But Juanita is different. She irons the fine linen. She is good—as good as his Excellency's mother—and beautiful. Maria! His Excellency should see her eyes. You know what eyes some Spanish women have. A history and something one does not understand.”
“Yes,” answered Cartoner again. “I know.”
“Juanita thought she liked him,” went on the voice, bringing its hearer suddenly back to Toledo; “she thought she liked him until she found him out. Then he turned upon her and said things that were not true. Such things, Senor, ruin a girl, whether they be true or not—especially if the women begin to talk. Is it not so?”
“Yes.”
“She told me of it, and we decided that there was nothing to do but kill Emmanuelo Dembaza. She kissed me, Excellency, and every time she did that I would kill a man if she asked me.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“And if you are taken and sent to prison for, say, twenty years?” suggested Cartoner.
“Then Juanita will drown herself. She has sworn it.”
“And if I do not give you up? If you escape?”