in front of me when the door flew open at the first kick, and Santos stood a moment in the moonlight, looking for the bed. With a stride he reached it, and I saw the gleam of a knife from where I stood among the squire’s clothes; it flashed over my bed, and was still.
“He is not ‘ere!”
“He heard us, and he’s a-hiding.”
“Make light, my friend, and we shall very soon see.”
Harris did so.
“Here’s a candle,” said Santos; “light it, and watch the door. Perro mal dicto! What have we here?”
I felt
it is still some satisfaction to remember that my love never punished me with such a look as was the young squire’s reward for this protestation. The curl of the pink nostrils, the parting of the proud lips, the gleam of the sound white teeth, before a word was spoken, were more than I, for one, could