“Si, señor; nada mas—que quiere V.?” (Yes, sir nothing more—what do you want?)
As she made this reply, she rose to her feet, and stood confronting me without the slightest semblance of fear. So unexpected was the answer, both in tone and sentiment, that for the life of me I could not help breaking into a laugh.
“You are merry, sir. You have made me sad; you have killed my favourite!”
I shall not easily forget the look that accompanied these words—sorrow, anger, contempt, defiance, were expressed in one and the same glance. My laughter was suddenly checked; I felt humiliated in that proud presence.
“Señorita,” I replied, “I deeply regret the necessity I have been under: it might have been worse—”
“And how, pray?—how worse?” demanded she, interrupting me.
“My pistol might have been aimed at yourself, but for a suspicion—”
“Carrambo!” cried she, again interrupting me, “it could not have been worse! I loved that creature dearly—dearly as I do my life—as I love my father—pobre yegua—yeguita—ita—ita!”
And as she thus wildly expressed herself, she bent down, passed her arms around the neck of the mustang, and once more pressed her lips to its velvet muzzle. Then gently closing its eyelids, she rose to an erect attitude, and stood with folded arms, regarding the lifeless form with a sad and bitter expression of countenance.
I scarcely knew what to do. I was in a dilemma with my fair captive. I would have given a month of my “payroll” to have restored the spotted mustang to life; but as that was out of the question, I bethought me of some means of making restitution to its owner. An offer of money would not be delicate. What then?