CHAPTER XXVII. — HOW MR. ASHBY AND MISS DOLORES GARCIA CARRY ON A VERY INTERESTING
CONVERSATION.
Ashby stood thus, holding the little hand of Dolores, and was overcome by the strongest emotions. He was in a very trying position. Her presence filled him with joy, yet she would not allow him to express that joy. Being bound to another, he was forced by Dolores to respect that bond. And yet, what must her feelings be toward him, since she had come here to see him, venturing so far and risking so much? Who else in the world would do this for him? Would Katie? The idea was too absurd. Katie was a mere butterfly; but Dolores, with her intense nature, her passionate self-devotion, was formed out of that stuff from which the heroine is made. Katie could lose all she loved best, and still go on smiling and smiling; but Dolores could lay down her life for her friend. (Such were the sentiments of Ashby on this occasion, and need not be considered as by any means a fair estimate of the real character of the young lady in question. Katie has yet to speak for herself.)
So Ashby felt himself debarred from making any strong demonstration of feeling either by word or act. He was afraid that Dolores might resent it. She might even fly from him as mysteriously as she had come. He was bound, therefore, to set a watch upon himself, and repress his feelings most strongly. It seemed to him a great concession on her part that she permitted him even to hold her hand. This was of itself most sweet, even if he could say nothing of those thoughts that were swelling within him.
"How did you manage to hide yourself so at Burgos?" he asked, after a long silence.
"I did not hide," said Dolores. "I went to that house where my friends were; and on the following morning they took me to a hotel where they said there was an English family. These were the Russells, and they consented to let me travel with them as far as I was going. Your English maiden is very beautiful, señor."
Dolores spoke these last words in a tone full of pathos.
"She is a pink-and-white doll," said Ashby, sharply. "Tell me about yourself, Dolores. Do you know"—and he bent down low over her—"do you know how I tried to see you? I was up at four, and from that until ten I paced the streets in all directions, hoping to get a glimpse of you. Did you know that I was looking for you? Then at last I saw you with that beast of a tailor, and I was in despair."