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Harte, Bret, 1836-1902

"Frontier Stories"

"We love thee, little one, but we keep our honor."
"There's nothing mean about the old man," said Brown, admiringly, with
a slight dropping of his left eyelid; "his head is level, and he goes
with his party."
"Thou takest my daughter, Senor Cranch," continued the old man, carried
away by his emotion; "but the American nation gives me a son."
"You know not what you say, father," said the young girl, angrily,
exasperated by a slight twinkle in the American's eye.
"Not so," said Cranch. "Perhaps one of the American nation may take him
at his word."
"Then, _caballeros_, you will, for the moment at least, possess
yourselves of the house and its poor hospitality," said Don Juan, with
time-honored courtesy, producing the rustic key of the gate of the
_patio_. "It is at your disposition, _caballeros_," he repeated,
leading the way as his guests passed into the corridor.
Two hours passed. The hills were darkening on their eastern slopes; the
shadows of the few poplars that sparsedly dotted the dusty highway were
falling in long black lines that looked like ditches on the dead level
of the tawny fields; the shadows of slowly moving cattle were mingling
with their own silhouettes, and becoming more and more grotesque.


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