“Who would know that I was taking a message? I should just be an English tourist. That settles it. I’ll go off and get a horse and start at once and find him and tell him.”
“No, no,” she said. “It is impossible.”
“Because I’m a boy and don’t know Spanish?”
“No, no, indeed,” she said, “but because we want you to settle here. Become a citizen later, if you wish, but, until then, you must avoid our troubles. Now here is my note to Rosa, if you will deliver it.”
It was very dim in the hall away from the tapers on the writing table. There were amphoræ full of sweet-smelling shrubs. He could see her face and hands against the darkness of the leaves: her head seemed crowned by white flowers. She switched on some lights so that the hall seemed suddenly full of armed men.
“Will you give me a sprig of those flowers?” he asked.
“Willingly.” She broke a spray for him.
“What is the flower?”
“Hermosita.”
“May I ever see you again?”