“Ah, you are not serious—do you not think I know?” she cried. “Your eyes tell me everything. Besides, you could not shut me up again if you tried.” Here she made a sudden dash at the door, but I caught her and held her a close prisoner.
“Let me go, monster—oh, no, not monster, dear, sweet friend, beautiful as the—moon, sun, stars. I am dying for fresh air. I will come back to the oven before he returns. If he caught me out, what blows! Come, let us sit under the tree together.”
“That would be disobeying your husband,” I said, trying to look stern.
“Never mind, I will confess it all to the priest some day, then it will be as if it had never happened. Such a husband—poof! If you were not a married man—are you married? What a pity! Say again, am I pretty?”
“Say first, Cleta, have you a horse a woman can ride on, and if you have one, will you sell it to me?”
“Oh, yes, the best horse in the Banda Orientál. They say it is worth six dollars—will you buy it for six dollars? No, I shall not sell it—I shall not tell you that I have a horse till you answer me. Am I pretty, sir stranger?”
“Tell me first about the horse, then ask me what you like.”
“Nothing more will I tell you—not a word. Yes, everything. Listen. When Antonio comes back, ask him to sell you a horse for your wife to ride. He will try to sell you one of his own, a demon full of faults like his master; false-footed, lame in the shoulder, a roarer, old as the south wind. A black piebald—remember. Offer to buy a roan with a cream nose. That is my horse. Offer him six dollars. Now say, am I pretty?”
“Oh, beautiful, Cleta; your eyes are stars, your mouth is a rosebud, sweeter than honey a thousand times.”
“Now you talk like a wise man,” she laughed; then, holding my hand, she led me to the tree and sat down by my side on the poncho.