“That’s better, my lady. You mustn’t be afraid; if you order me to, we’ll go back this minute.”
The Countess considered for a moment, and then cried gayly:
“No; let us go on. We’ll go wherever you wish. You stay with me, Quentin, for I want to talk to you.”
Again Pacheco climbed to the box, clucked to the horses, and the carriage went on its way. It was beginning to clear up; here and there a patch of star-sprinkled sky appeared between the great, black clouds.
“He seems like a fine fellow,” said the Countess, who was now completely at her ease, when she and Quentin were alone.
“Do not deceive yourself; there are only two places where true gentlemen can be found: in the mountains, or in prison.”
“How awful!” she cried.
“That is the way the two extremes meet,” he went on. “When a man is a great, a very great rascal, and utterly disregards the ideas of the people and everything else, he has reached the point where the bandit is joining hands with the gentleman.”
“See here, Sir Bandit,” said the Countess easily, “why did you take this dislike to me, and put me in the papers? Because I said that Rafaela was a hussy, and that she had married Juan de Dios for his money?”
“Yes, my lady.”