“No less would content him,” interposed Ashley, while Pepé muttered an inarticulate remonstrance. “It was Pepé you had sent upon your errand; it was Pepé whom Pedro would dispatch with his answer.”
“Ay!” said Pepé, grumblingly, “and with you I must remain. I am sworn to that, whether you like it or loathe it.”
“I,” said Ashley, “have ridden thus far out of the direct path I would have taken to El Toro, to warn you of the character of the man you have made your hero; to tell you I believe you to be the daughter of my cousin, to offer you the home and the fortune that would have been his.”
He spoke unhesitatingly, yet a strange sense of bewilderment swept over him. He was conscious that it was no fear of material loss that troubled him, though not for an instant did he dream of using the advantage of the law against this defenceless girl; but that this strange impulsive creature should be of the same blood as he, as the calm and gentle Mary; that she should come into their life with her wayward passions, her erratic genius, her weird beauty,—was a thing incomprehensible, almost terrible. Yet the blood leaped stronger in the young man’s veins as he beheld her; and his heart bounded as he said, “Yes, I must go; for I have certain news that the enemy is massing his forces for attack. I go to warn Gonzales; but I shall return to claim you as my cousin’s child. Meanwhile, be silent—patient. Pedro prays you keep the secret of your birth. He believes as firmly as ever that only thus can you be safe. And for that mother’s sake I pray you be silent. Right may be won for you, and her good name be still left untainted. There may be a mystery still to be unravelled.”
“I will be silent; I will wait,” Chinita said in a cold, hollow voice.
Ashley noticed that she had no word of sympathy for him, no recognition of the endeavors that had led to her discovery. Apparently the thought that he was aught to her was as far from her mind as any grief had ever been for that other American,—as far indeed as such was at that moment. For, strangely, Ashley seemed to penetrate the inmost shrine of her thought; and still the figures around which centred her love, her hopes, her passions were only those of Pedro, of Ramirez, of Doña Isabel.
“I will be silent,” she repeated. “Ah, it will be easier now! Yes, hasten to El Toro, bring Gonzales; he will be a surer, safer leader than Ruiz—though I will turn him again to my will. Yes, yes, more than once I have thought Ruiz wavering, uncertain! Now at a word I will make him what before he has only affected to others to be,—the undying enemy of Ramirez!”
Ashley was silent. He would have had this girl passive, supine, womanly; yet from the very necessity of warning her, he had been forced to arouse in her this vindictive wrath against the man who had done her unwittingly such foul wrong.
“Listen!” he said hurriedly, after a pause. “It is Pedro who implores, who commands, that until he gives you leave, nothing of what I have told you shall pass your lips. I might have had your promise before I would speak. See, the stars are shining that must see me on my way. Give me two promises before we part,—one that you will be silent; the other that Pepé shall be continually within your sight or call. For this he was sent from the side of the suffering, perhaps dying, Pedro. He would have you safe,—safe from Ramirez.”
“And I will kill you before you shall fall into his hands,” interposed Pepé, grimly.