"Do you think so?" asked Quentin, smiling.
"Yes."
"But how, or why do you suppose so?"
"I don't know; I perceive that you are a mere boy (muchacho), and yet—and yet——"
"What, senora?"
"Ave Maria purissima! I can't say—there is something that speaks to me of thought, reflection, care beyond your years."
"It may well be so, dear senora; I have never known a relative in the world; I have been an orphan from infancy, and——"
"And now," said she, presenting him with her hand, "you are a soldier who comes to fight for Spain!"
"And for you, too, senora," he added, as he touched her fingers with his lips, and with a devotion that somewhat surprised himself. "But are you afraid of me, as old Donna Ximena was?"
"No—why do you think I am?"