"Then I shall have to carry you. You must go, Felisa, and I must, at once."
For answer Felisa leant over and looked into the eyes that were so near her own. She laid her arm round Beltran's shoulders, the faint fragrance that had no name, but was rather a memory of carefully cared for lingerie, was wafted across his nostrils for the hundredth time. One could not imagine Felisa without that evanescent thing that was part of her and yet had no place in her contrivance, hardly any place in her consciousness.
Beltran took her in his arms and lifted her to the ground. The tree, released, sprang in air.
"Ah! there goes my stirrup. You must get it for me, Beltran."
The gay scarf, having been utilized as a stirrup, had been left to shake and shiver high above them, with the tremors of the tree, which was endeavouring to straighten its bent bark and wood to their normal upright position.
"I can send for that; we must not wait," said Beltran.
"Send for it, indeed! Do you know that I got the scarf in Naples, cousin?—that a Princess Pallavicini gave it to me? Send for it, indeed! Do you think that I would have one of your grimy peons lay his black finger upon that scarf? You pulled the tree down before, bend it down again."
For answer, Beltran leaped in air, trying to seize the scarf. He failed to reach it. Then he climbed the tree, and soon his weight had bent the slight young sapling to earth again. Felisa sat underneath a ceiba, watching Beltran's efforts. At each failure she laughed aloud. She was obviously regretful when finally he released the scarf and handed it to her.
Beltran urged haste with Felisa, but by one pretext or another she delayed him.