Not so Juanita. Her black eyes snapped suddenly with suspicion, she
drew in her breath, and closed her little mouth firmly. Then she began
a _crescendo_.
Mother of God! was that all? Was he a child, to be sent away for such
time or for such purpose as best pleased the fathers? Was he to know no
more than that? With such gifts as God had given him, was he not at
least to have some word in disposing of them? Ah! _she_ would not stand
it.
The boy gazed admiringly at the piquant energy of the little figure
before him, and envied her courage. "It is the _mestizo_ blood," he
murmured to himself. Then aloud, "Thou shouldst have been a man,
'Nita."
"And thou a woman."
"Or a priest. Eh, what is that?"
They had both risen, Juanita defiantly, her black braids flying as she
wheeled and suddenly faced the thicket, Francisco clinging to her with
trembling hands and whitened lips. A stone, loosened from the hillside,
had rolled to their feet; there was a crackling in the alders on the
slope above them.
"Is it a bear, or a brigand?" whispered Francisco, hurriedly, sounding
the uttermost depths of his terror in the two words.
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