“Yo te amo.”
The words quivered upon my lips, but their tone proved the sincerity in which I had spoken. No doubt it was further manifest by the earnestness of my manner as I awaited her reply.
The habitual smile had departed from her lips; the damask red deepened and mounted higher upon her cheeks; the dark fringes drooped downward, and half-concealed the burning orbs beneath: the face of the gay girl had suddenly assumed the serious air of womanhood.
At first, I was terrified by the expression, and could scarcely control my dread; but I drew hope from the flushed cheek, the roseate neck, the swelling panting bosom. Strong emotions were stirring in that breast.
Oh, what emotions! will she not speak? Will she not declare them?
There was a long interval of silence—to me, it seemed an age.
“Señor,” she said at length—’twas the first time I had heard that voice tremble—“Señor, you promised to be candid; you have been so: are you equally sincere?”
“I have spoken from the depth of my soul.”
The long lashes were raised, and the love-light gleamed in her liquid eyes; for a moment it burned steadily, bathing my heart as with balm. Heaven itself could not have shed a brighter beam upon my spirit.
All at once a smile played upon her features, in which I detected, or fancied so, the gay insouciance that springs from indifference. To me it was another moment of pain. She continued—