The fervent exaltation of Mariquilla Candiola carried her from intense anger to pathetic sensitiveness of suffering. She had showed her anger with fiery heat, now she burst into bitter tears, expressing herself thus—
“What mad things I have said! And what madness hast thou said, Augustine! How I have loved you, and how I do love you!—from the time I saw you first at our house. You have never been absent from my thoughts for a moment. You have been to me the most loving, the most generous, the most thoughtful, the bravest of all men. I loved you without knowing who you were. I did not know your name, or that of your parents; but I would have loved you if you had been the son of the hangman of Saragossa. Augustine, you have forgotten me since we have not been together. It is I, Mariquilla. I have all this time believed, and I believe now that you will not take away from me my good father whom I love as much as I love you. He is good. He has not hurt anybody. He is a poor old man. He has some faults; but I do not see them. I do