“Don’t beat her!” shouted El Mojoso. “No, I won’t beat her any more,” and seizing his daughter by the arm he pushed her brutally from him, shouting:
“Go ... and never come back!”
The bewildered girl hid her face in her hands, and then the poor little thing began to walk away, weeping, and not knowing what she was doing, nor where she was going.
Months later, a woman from an Obejo mill came to El Mojoso and announced that Fuensanta had given birth to a son, and that she desired to be forgiven and to return home; but the innkeeper said that he would kill her if she ever came near him.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
“The scoundrel! The bandit!” exclaimed Quentin, striking the table a blow with his fist.
“Who is a scoundrel?” asked Señor Sabadía in surprise.
“That Mojoso fellow, the dirty thief ... his daughter dishonoured him because she loved a man, yet he did not dishonour himself, though he robbed every one that came along.”
“That’s different.”
“Yes, it’s different,” cried Quentin furiously. “To the hidalgos of Spain it is a different matter; to all those commonplace and thoughtless men, a woman’s honour is beneath contempt. Imbeciles!”