The black wig, under which she had skilfully hidden her red hair, made her look more pale than ever. The wide sombrero, tilted backwards, made a picturesque framing to her oval face, and the manta or heavy cloak, worn by all Spaniards at night, hung, loosely draped over her left shoulder. Emile promptly twisted it off.
"This won't do," he said. "The manta is never worn like that. Besides it's not enough of a disguise. Watch how I put it on." With a few rough yet dexterous movements he arranged the dark folds so as to hide her shoulders and the upper part of her body.
Then he stood back a few paces. "But your green eyes! A disguise for them will be impossible. One sees them always."
"Les yeux verts.
Vont à l'enfer!"
"Do you know that, mon enfant?"
"I've heard it before. They've already come as far as l'entresol, according to you."
Emile grinned. He enjoyed skirmishing, and felt that he had met his match in words. Before he could think of another retort she added:
"I can see in the dark with my green eyes, so they're useful at all events."
"Then you'll find plenty of use for them when you're working for us—and the Cause. When you have to ride upon the hills at night you will find them of great service. You'll have to ride astride too, so it is better for you in every way to be dressed like this."
Presently he left her with a few words of praise for her successful appearance. His first feeling of surprise at her coolness still lingered. He had expected a scene in a quiet way, a refusal, at least expostulation. All his first impressions of her were being verified. Well, he hoped she would continue in her present ways. Undoubtedly she was an original, certainly she gave no trouble.