"I have been trying a new horse, Inez, and came to know at what hour you would ride to-morrow." He stood fanning himself with his broad sombrero as he spoke.
"Excuse me, Señor, I do not intend to ride at all."
"You never refused before, Inez; what is the meaning of this?" and his Spanish brow darkened ominously.
"That I do not feel inclined to do so, is sufficient reason."
"And why don't you choose to ride, pray? You have done it all your life."
"I'll be cross-questioned by no one!" replied Inez, springing to her feet, with flashing eyes, and passionately clinching her small, jeweled hand.
Mañuel was of a fiery temperament, and one of the many who never pause to weigh the effect of their words or actions. Seizing her arm in no gentle manner, he angrily exclaimed, "A few more weeks, and I'll see whether you indulge every whim, and play the queen so royally!"
Inez disengaged her arm, every feature quivering with scorn.
"To whom do you speak, Señor Nevarro? You have certainly mistaken me for one of the miserable peons over whom you claim jurisdiction. Allow me to undeceive you! I am Inez de Garcia, to whom you shall never dictate, for I solemnly declare, that from this day the link which has bound us from childhood is at an end. Mine be the hand to sever it. From this hour we meet only as cousins! Go seek a more congenial bride!"
"Hold, Inez! are you mad?"
"No, Mañuel, but candid; for eight years I have known that I was destined to be your wife, but I never loved you, Mañuel. I do not, and never can, otherwise than as a cousin."
In a tone of ill-suppressed range, Nevarro retorted: "My uncle's authority shall compel you to fulfil the engagement! You shall not thus escape me!"
"As you please, Señor. Yet let me tell you, compulsion will not answer. The combined efforts of San Antonio will not avail--they may crush, but cannot conquer me." She bowed low, and left the room.
Every feature inflamed with wrath, Nevarro snatched his hat, and hurried down the street. He had not proceeded far, when a hand was laid upon his arm, and turning, with somewhat pugnacious intentions, encountered Father Mazzolin's piercing black eyes.
"Bueño tarde, Padre."
The black eyes rested on Nevarro with an expression which seemed to demand an explanation of his choler. Mañuel moved uneasily; the hot blood glowed in his swarthy cheek, and swelled like cords on the darkened brow.