“Objections!” exclaimed our hero, with great energy, “of course not. A tearing gallop over the Pampas is—a—most—”
He stopped, for a strange, unaccountable feeling of dissatisfaction which he could not understand began to overwhelm him. Was it that he was really in love after all with this Indian girl, and that the thought of final separation from her—impossible! No, he could not credit such an idea for a moment. But he loved her spirit—her soul, as it were—and he could not be blamed for being so sorry, so very sorry, to part with that thus suddenly—thus unexpectedly. Yes, he was not in love. It was a fraternal or paternal—a Platonic feeling of a strong type. He would just see her once more, alone, before starting, say good-bye, and give her a little, as it were, paternal, or fraternal, or Platonic advice.
“Senhor Armstrong is in a meditative mood,” said Pedro, breaking the thread of his meditations.
“Yes, I was thinking—was wondering—that is—by the way, with whom will you leave Manuela?”
“With a friend who lives in a villa in the suburbs.”
“You seem to have friends wherever you go,” said Lawrence.
“Ay, and enemies too,” returned Pedro with a slight frown. “However, with God’s blessing, I shall circumvent the latter.”
“When do you start?” asked Lawrence, with an air of assumed indifference.
“To-morrow or next day, perhaps, but I cannot tell until I meet Colonel Marchbanks. I am not, indeed, under his command—being what you may call a sort of freelance—but I work with him chiefly, that is, under his directions, for he and I hold much the same ideas in regard to most things, and have a common desire to see something like solid peace in the land. Look, do you see that villa with the rustic porch on the cliff; just beyond the town?”
“Yes—it is so conspicuous and so beautifully situated that one cannot help seeing and admiring it.”