' But wait. You will see how constantly I think of
you." Longorio drew from his pocket several photographs of the
Austin ranch-house.
"Where did you get those?" Alaire asked in astonishment.
"Ah! My secret. See! They are badly worn already, for I keep them
next my bosom."
"We entertain very few guests at Las Palmas," she murmured,
uncomfortably.
"I know. I know a great deal."
"It would scarcely be safe for you to call; the country is full of
Candeleristas--"
"Cattle!" said the officer, with a careless shrug. "Did not that
great poet Byron swim an ocean to see a lovely lady? Well, I, too,
am a poet. I have beautiful fancies; songs of love run through my
mind. Those Englishmen know nothing of passion. Your American men
are cold. Only a Mexican can love. We have fire in our veins,
senora."
To these perfervid protestations Dolores listened with growing
fright; her eyes were wide and they were fixed hypnotically upon
the speaker; she presented much the appearance of a rabbit charmed
by a serpent. But to Longorio she did not exist; she was a
chattel, a servant, and therefore devoid of soul or intelligence,
or use beyond that of serving her mistress.
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