“Poor girl, I fear that such prolonged riding over these rugged passes must fatigue you.” Manuela raised her dark eyes to the youth’s face, and, with a smile that was very slight—though not so slight but that it revealed a double row of bright little teeth—she replied softly—
“W’at you say?”
“Oh! I forgot, you don’t speak English. How stupid I am!” said Lawrence with a blush, for he was too young to act the “fatherly” part well.
He felt exceedingly awkward, but, observing that the girl’s eyes were again fixed pensively on the ground, he hoped that she had not noticed the blush, and attempted to repeat the phrase in Spanish. What he said it is not possible to set down in that tongue, nor can we gratify the reader with a translation. Whatever it was, Manuela replied by again raising her dark eyes for a moment—this time without a smile—and shaking her head.
Poor Lawrence felt more awkward than ever. In despair he half thought of making trial of Latin or Greek, when Pedro came opportunely to the rescue. Looking back he began—
“Senhor Armstrong—”
“I think,” interrupted the youth, “that you may dispense with ‘Senhor.’”
“Nay, I like to use it,” returned the guide. “It reminds me so forcibly of the time when I addressed your good old father thus.”
“Well, Senhor Pedro, call me what you please. What were you about to say?”
“Only that we are now approaching one of the dangerous passes of the mountains, where baggage-mules sometimes touch the cliffs with their packs, and so get tilted over the precipices. But our mules are quiet, and with ordinary care we have nothing to fear.”