"But you know the fate of—of—a secret informer," said I; for in such a presence the hateful word spy faltered on my tongue.
"No——" she replied, pouting.
"They are hanged on the first tree."
"Madre de Dios! and would you be so barbarous to a lady?"
"Señora," I continued, with the most sincere feeling; "from this gulf I would gladly save you. Tremble for us both, if the escapade of last night is discovered—for I would not survive you."
(Here was a good shot!) She laughed when I became so serious; then pouted her ruby lips, shook back her black tresses, and, reclining on the sofa, looked at me with a droll and languishing expression in her half-closed eyes, saying—
"What, señor, are you in love with me?"
"Oh yes! señora," I replied, quite overwhelmed by this naïveté; "indeed—indeed, you do not know how much I love you!"
At forty I could not have said more. She still continued to smile, and murmured—
"Ah, my heavens, he loves me! but, o mal hayas tu," she added, "there is no such love on earth as that of which the poets sing and romances tell us."