Chapter Twenty Two.
The officer, from his position, had a full view of the girl as she stood in the little enclosure of flowers. She had retreated to the door, and would have gone inside, but she turned to call off Cibolo, a large wolf-dog, who was barking fiercely, and threatening the new-comer.
The dog, obedient to her voice, ran back into the house growling, but by no means satisfied. He evidently wanted to try his teeth on the shanks of the stranger’s horse.
“Thank you, fair Señorita,” said the officer. “It is very kind of you to protect me from that fierce brute. I would he were the only clangour I had to fear in this house.”
“What have you to fear, Señor?” inquired Rosita, with some surprise.
“Your eyes, sweet girl: more dangerous than the sharp teeth of your dog,—they have already wounded me.”
“Cavallero,” replied Rosita, blushing and averting her face, “you have not come here to jest with a poor girl. May I inquire what is your business?”
“Business I have none, lovely Rosita, but to see you,—nay, do not leave me!—I have business—that is, I am thirsty, and halted for a drink: you will not refuse me a cup of water, fair Señorita?”
These last phrases, broken and hastily delivered, were meant to restrain the girl from cutting short the interview, which she was about to do by entering the house. Vizcarra was not thirsty, neither did he wish for water; but the laws of hospitality would compel the girl to bring it, and the act might further his purposes.
She, without replying to his complimentary harangue, stepped into the house, and presently returned with a gourd-shell filled with water. Carrying it to the gate-like opening of the fences, she presented it to him, and stood waiting for the vessel.