"I didn't think this," she said, "or I should have been afraid to come. Señor, you are false to your English bride."
"English bride!" cried Ashby, scornfully. "What is she? A doll! I never wish to see her again. My fancy for her was a whim—a passing whim! You, Dolores—you are the only one that I love! I love you! I love you, I adore you! my own—"
"Señor," cried Dolores, tearing away her hands, which Ashby had seized in his, "I will instantly leave you if you are so dishonorable. All this is insult to me—yes, to me. Oh, señor, you will break my heart!"
As Dolores said this, sobs burst from her. She glided away into the gloom, still sobbing. Ashby gave way utterly.
"Dolores," he cried, in a tone of entreaty—"Dolores, forgive me! I will never offend again—never—never! Oh, forgive me! Come back, Dolores! Oh, do not leave me, Dolores!"
At this Dolores relented, and Ashby saw her approaching him again. He advanced toward her.
"Be calm," she said; "speak low; we are in danger."
"But how did you get here?" asked Ashby.
"I will tell you another time. It is a secret passage."
"A secret passage?"