“My fair begins to yield;
I’m safe to win the field!”
“Pastorcillo! listen,” repeated the poor child sadly, for though she did not recognize the count, he had so enthralled her, that she felt towards the supposed shepherd as she had never felt towards any but him.
“Oh, cease that horrid song, and speak to me,” she said at last, and so humbly, that the count thought it was time to put in a word.
“Will you come away with me? because otherwise it is no use talking,” he said, somewhat abruptly.
“Never!” retorted Blanca, indignantly; “and you had better take care, and not talk so loud, for if my father overheard you, he would send and have you strung up.”
But the shepherd did not care a bit, he had in the meantime spoken to her father, and told him what his plan was; and received from him the hearty approval of his scheme for bringing his incorrigible daughter to reason; so he sang out louder than before,—
“My fair begins to yield;
I’m safe to win the field!”
Blanca had never been treated in this way, and did not know what to make of it. She turned to go away, but then the dread stole over her, suppose the shepherd should go away as mysteriously as he had come, and then there would be no one left to remind her of the count. She could not bear to think of it: she turned, and said faintly,—