"A thief. Ha! muy bueno--but it is not I, you understand--
I, Caesar Briones, who am the thief! No! It is that swaggering
espadachin--that fanfarron of a Colonel Pendleton--that pattern of
an official, Mr. Hathaway--that most beautiful heiress of the
Californias, Miss ARGUELLO--that are thieves! Yes--of a NAME--Miss
Arguello--of a NAME! The name of Arguello!"
Paul rose to his feet.
"Ah, so! You start--you turn pale--you flash your eyes, senora,
but you think you have deceived me all these years. You think I
did not see your game at Rosario--yes, even when that foolish
Castro muchacha first put that idea in your head. Who furnished
you the facts you wanted? I--Mother of God! SUCH FACTS!--I, who
knew the Arguello pedigree--I, who know it was as impossible for
you to be a daughter of them as--what? let me think--as--as it is
impossible for you to be the wife of that baron whom you would
deceive with the rest! Ah, yes; it was a high flight for you,
Mees--Mees--Dona Fulana--a noble game for you to bring down!"
Why did she not speak? What was she doing? If she had but uttered
a single word of protest, of angry dismissal, Paul would have flown
to her side. It could not be the paralysis of personal fear: the
balcony was wide; she could easily pass to the end; she could even
see his open window.
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