“Certainly. I shall make no secret of it to you; nor need I. Why should there be any between us? We’ve now known one another long enough, and intimately enough, to exchange confidences of the closest kind. To-day mine is—that I mean proposing to Don Gregorio’s daughter—offering her my hand in marriage.”
“And I,” returns Calderon, “intend doing the same to his grand-daughter.”
“In that case, we’re both in the same boat; and, as there’s no rivalry between us, we can pull pleasantly together. I’ve no objection to being your uncle; even admitting you to a share in the old Spaniard’s property—proportioned to your claims of kinship.”
“I don’t want a dollar of the Don’s money; only his grand-daughter. I’m deeply in love with her.”
“And I,” continues De Lara, “am just as deeply in love with his daughter—it may be deeper.”
“You couldn’t. I’m half-mad about Iñez Alvarez. I could kill her—if she refuse me.”
“I shall kill Carmen Montijo—if she refuse me.” The two men are talking seriously, or seem so. Their voices, the tone, the flashing of their eyes, the expression upon their faces, with their excited gesticulation—all show them to be in earnest.
At the last outburst of passionate speech they turn in their saddles, and look each other in the face. De Lara continues the dialogue:
“Now, tell me, Faustino; what hope have you of success?”
“For that, fair enough. You remember the last fandango held at Don Gregorio’s—on the day of the cattle-branding!”