"I have not," interrupted Myra. "I hate you for what has happened."
"Yet, hating me, you have become my wife," Don Carlos commented, with an air of perplexity.
"I am not your wife," protested Myra. "You have fooled me before, but you cannot fool me into believing that the farcical service, gabbled in a language I do not understand by one of your men masquerading as a monk, constitutes a marriage."
"Padre Sancho is an ordained priest. The ceremony was not a farce. You are now my wife—the wife of El Diablo Cojuelo, the outlaw. Later on, when you marry Don Carlos—if Don Carlos still desires you—you shall have a more elaborate ceremony, if you wish it, and you will be doubly married without being a bigamist."
There came an interruption at that moment. Madre Dolores appeared, murmuring apologies, with a tall glass of wine in her skinny hand, and seemingly made some appeal to Don Carlos.
"Myra, some of my men are holding festival to celebrate our marriage, and they have sent Mother Dolores to ask us to do them the honour of taking wine with them and allowing them to toast us," Don Carlos explained. "It would be a gracious act, which will endear you to all my men, to consent."
"But I have told you I cannot believe the marriage ceremony was other than a farce," objected Myra. "Is this another trick to humiliate me and make it appear I have surrendered?"
"Again you misjudge me," replied Don Carlos abruptly. "It is a compliment, and should be proof to you that my men know the marriage ceremony was no farce. They will take it as an affront if you refuse their invitation."
"What does that matter to me?" exclaimed Myra rebelliously.
Don Carlos's brows drew together and he looked chagrined.