“Still I do not understand you. A hand?”
“Yes, your hand.”
“How?”
“Grasped in mine—united with it in holy wedlock. That is all I ask.”
She starts as if a serpent had stung her, for she now comprehends all.
“All I ask,” he continues in a strain of fervid passion, “I who love you with my whole soul; who have loved you for long hopeless years—aye, senorita, ever since you were a schoolgirl; myself a rough, wild youth, the son of a ranchero, who dared only gaze at you from a distance. I am a peasant no longer, but one who has wealth; upon whom the State has bestowed power to command; made me worthy to choose a wife from among the proudest in our land—even to wed with the Dona Adela Miranda, who beholds him at her feet!”
While speaking he has knelt before her, and remains upon his knees awaiting her response.
She makes none. She stands as if petrified, deprived of the power of speech.
Her silence gives him hope.
“Dona Adela,” he continues in an appealing tone, as if to strengthen the chances of an affirmative answer, “I will do everything to make you happy—everything a husband can. And remember your brother’s life! I am risking my own to save it. I have just spoken to him on the subject. He does not object; on the contrary, has given consent to you being mine.”