“Señorita, I saw not you.”
“Carrambo! it was not for the want of using your eyes. There was not a balcon or reja into which you did not glance—not a smile in the whole street you did not seem anxious to reciprocate—Ha, ha, ha! I fear, Señor Capitan, you are the Don Juan de Tenorio of the north.”
“Lady, it is not my character.”
“Nonsense! you are proud of it. I never saw man who was not. But come! a truce to badinage. About the horse—you have none in your troop I value, save one.”
I trembled as she spoke.
“It is he,” she continued, pointing to Moro.
I felt as if I should sink into the earth. My embarrassment prevented me for some time from replying. She noticed my hesitation, but remained silent, awaiting my answer.
“Señorita,” I stammered out at length, “that steed is a great favourite—an old and tried friend. If you desire—to possess him, he is—he is at your service.”
In emphasising the “if,” I was appealing to her generosity. It was to no purpose.
“Thank you,” she replied coolly; “he shall be well cared for. No doubt he will serve my purpose. How is his mouth?”