"But, oh, dearest, sweetest Dolores, will you not let me tell you how I love you?" said Ashby, drawing her closer to him.
Dolores shrank away.
"Oh no—no, no!" she said. "I will not listen—never—never—never!"
"I tell you, Dolores," continued Ashby, "since I have seen you I have discovered that all the world and everything in it isn't worth a straw to me unless I have you. I swear to you that when you left me at Burgos all the light of life went out, and all the joy and sweetness of life left me. I'd rather stand here in this prison with you than be a king outside without you. And I'm glad that these devils of Carlists have captured us."
As Ashby spoke these words in a low, fervid, excited whisper, he held Dolores tight in his arms, pressed to his quick-throbbing heart; nor could she draw away from him, in spite of her shrinking back. In fact, the poor little thing did not seem to have the will to get away from him, for the end of it was that her head fell down helplessly on his breast, and she began to cry:
"I—think—it's—cruel," she sobbed, "cruel in you!"
Ashby pressed her more closely to his heart in the same "cruel" manner, and kissed away her tears.
"You're not kind to me at all," sighed Dolores.
To this observation Ashby made no reply, thinking, perhaps, that at that moment words were of no particular use.
"It's very cruel," repeated Dolores, "and I did not think you would be so unkind—"