"You are certain of all this, senora?" said he, laying his hand lightly on her arm.
"Quite, senor."
"We cannot—you, at least, cannot—proceed thirty miles on foot; so what in heaven's name shall we do?" said Quentin in great perplexity.
"The Conde de Maciera, who serves in my brother's band of guerillas as captain of a hundred lancers, has a villa at the foot of yonder hill near the Salor; I remember that the wildest bull we ever had in the arena at Salamanca came from thence. The place is scarcely two miles distant from this, and could we but reach it, doubtless some of his domestics might assist us."
"The idea is excellent; let us set out at once!"
"Be advised by me, senor, and take some breakfast first," said the Spanish girl, laughing; "it is a custom we guerillas have, always to eat when provisions can be had, lest we halt where there are none."
Quentin at once assented, and opening the alforja produced the fowl and other edibles, on which they made a slight repast before setting forth.
Seating herself within the ruined arch, her head reclined upon her left hand, Isidora displayed to perfection a lovely rounded arm, and a pair of taper ankles and little feet, towards which Quentin's eyes wandered from time to time.
"You look at me very earnestly, senora," said he, while his cheek reddened and his heart fluttered on finding the dark searching eyes of the young donna fixed on him more than once.
"There is, I can see, a sad expression in your eyes, senor."