“So soon again! She was here scarce two weeks ago, was she not? I was away from the settlement, but had word of it. I was expecting to hear from you, good José. Why did you not write?”
“Only, Señor Don Miguel, for want of a messenger that could be relied upon. I had something to communicate, that could not with safety be entrusted to a stranger. Something, I am sorry to say, you won’t thank me for telling you; but my life is yours, and I promised you should know all.”
The “prairie wolf” sprang to his feet, as if pricked with a sharp-pointed thorn.
“Of her, and him? I know it by your looks. Your mistress has met him?”
“No, Señor, she hasn’t—not that I know of—not since the first time.”
“What, then?” inquired Diaz, evidently a little relieved, “She was here while he was at the posada. Something passed between them?”
“True, Don Miguel—something did pass, as I well know, being myself the bearer of it. Three times I carried him a basket of dulces, sent by the Doña Isidora—the last time also a letter.”
“A letter! You know the contents? You read it?”
“Thanks to your kindness to the poor peon boy, I was able to do that; more still—to make a copy of it.”
“You have one?”