“It is not pretty compliments I wish, señor. Will you not forget your foolish boast, and go?”
“If ever I made a boast, señorita, it was not a foolish one.”
“I urge you again, señor, to go before Rojerio Rocha comes. He is expected to become my husband, and when he hears of your boast he may take it upon himself to do something unpleasant. Will you not do as I request, since I have disobeyed my duenna’s orders and lowered myself to speak with you?”
“Lowered yourself, señorita?” Surprise, astonishment, a bit of pain was in the voice, and the caballero’s face went white for an instant as his fingers gripped the rim of his sombrero until it was torn. But quickly he recovered his composure, and bowed before her again. “I beg your pardon, señorita. But you mistake. It would be impossible for you to lower yourself, since angels are above punishment and accusation; it is myself—or any other man—who is elevated when you condescend to take notice of his existence.”
“I—I should not have spoken as I did,” she stammered.
“You should speak exactly as you desire, señorita—always. It is your privilege. As for me—it is my privilege to remain at San Diego de Alcalá, not in opposition to your wishes, but because I—I have reason to remain. And you yourself have made it impossible for me to leave now.”
“I?”
“There was some question, I believe, of my punishment at the hands of this Rojerio Rocha if I remained. That in itself is a very good reason why I should not depart, señorita. Have you ever heard it said that I am a coward?”
“I am sure you are not,” she replied, searching his face. “It takes a brave man to depart in the face of a charge of cowardice, señor. Will you not show your courage?”
“The point is well taken,” he observed. “But I have reason for remaining, though mission and presidio and neophytes and gentiles turn against me—a twofold reason, señorita. One part of it concerns that of which, happily, you know nothing; and the other——”