Alaire did not color under the ardent glance that went with this declaration. She deliberately changed the subject.
"This morning while we were in the office of the jeje de armas," she said, "I saw a poor woman with a baby—she was scarcely more than a child herself—whose husband is in prison. She told me how she had come all the way from the country and is living with friends, just to be near him. Every day she goes to the carcel, but is denied admission, and every day she comes to plead with the jefe de armas for her husband's life. But he will not see her, and the soldiers only laugh at her tears."
"A common story! These women and their babies are very annoying," observed the general.
"She says that her husband is to be shot."
"Very likely! Our prisons are full. Doubtless he is a bad man."
"Can't you do something?"
"Eh?" Longorio lifted his brows in the frankest inquiry.
"That poor girl with her little, bare, brown-eyed baby was pitiful." Alaire leaned forward with an earnest appeal in her face, and her host smiled.
"So? That is how it is, eh? What is her name?"
"Inez Garcia. The husband's name is Juan."