“Señora, I can serve you best by going back.”
“You think that if you took me to Micas the old women would talk—that my good name would be gone?” she asked searchingly.
“Señora, we waste time, and time is precious,” he protested.
Muella studied the haggard, set face. This man meant to sacrifice his life for her. Deep through the fire of his eyes she saw unutterable pain and passion. If she had doubted his love, she doubted no more. He must be made to believe that she had followed him, not alone to save him from Tigre, but because she loved him. Afterward he would be grateful for her deceit. And if her avowal did not break his will, then she would use a woman’s charm, a woman’s sweetness.
“Señor, you told Bernardo the truth—and I lied to him!” she said.
Stranger than all other sensations of that flight was the thrill in her as she forced herself to speak.
“What do you mean?” demanded Augustine.
“He asked you if you loved me. You told the truth. He asked me if—if I loved you. And—I lied!”
“Santa Maria!” the man cried, starting up impulsively. Then slowly he fell back. “Señora, may the saints reward you for your brave words. I know! You are trying to keep me from going back. We waste precious time—go now!”