"And that is—"
"At the ford of Huerta on the Tormes."
"Six miles below Salamanca?"
"Yes."
"I will cross the ford, then."
"But a French battalion occupies the town."
"I care not if ten battalions occupied it—I must even ride the ford as I find it; 'tis a saying in my country, Domingo, where I hope our dear Juanna will one day smile with me, when we talk of sunny Spain and these wild adventures."
"No—no—you will never leave Spain," said Juanna, with a merry smile. "Your poor Spanish girl could never go to the land of the Inglesos, where the sun shines but once in a year—not once every day, as it does here in beautiful Leon: but say no more of this, or I shall sing Ya no quiero amores," &c., and, taking up her guitar, she sang with a winning drollery of expression which made her piquant loveliness a thousand times more striking:—
My love no more to England—to England now shall roam,
For I have a better, fonder love—a truer love at home!
If I should visit England,
I hope to find them true;
For a love like mine deserves a wreath!
Green and immortal too!
But, O! they are proud, those English dames, to all who thither
roam,
And I have a better, dearer love—a truer love at home!"
"You have me, Juanna—dearest Juanna!" exclaimed Grant, tenderly, as he kissed her.