I was somewhat silenced. I knew not whether to be perplexed or pleased by her curious morality and strange flow of spirits; but the warnings of Ian came to my memory. "Believe me, señor, I am very happy as I am; marriage is only a traffic in which two people try to cheat each other, as sharpers would with cogged dice. I saw that nothing would be made of this little one by gravity, and resolved to encounter her with some of that banter which one picks up so readily at camp and college, when she resumed-- "And you would have me to go with you to the camp--ha! ha! where I should be scared by the aspect of your bareknee'd Scots." "Nay, señora, I had no such intention. The camp is not the place for one so fair--so tender. Women should never be there. Old Anacreon, who describes female beauty as being more powerful than fire or steel, was convinced of the impropriety of women going to war, as they were meant only for a soft and luxurious life." "How!" exclaimed my actress, after the manner of Medea, in the tragedy of Euripides; "dost thou not know that I would rather stand thrice in the ranks of war, than once endure the pains of childbirth?" Then, blushing with the most charming modesty at the vehemence she had betrayed, she said-- "Did you not hear some one laughing?" "I heard something behind the wainscot, again." "'Tis a rat scratching--the place is full of those animals; but now, señor, you must go, for I expect another visitor." "A visitor," said I, as my old jealousy of the Hausmeister returned; "I vow to you I will not go; for if this visitor is a man I will run him through the brisket." "Now, señor, do retire if you please; why linger?" "Because I am so fond of speaking to pretty women." "Doubtless you think to conquer in the field of Cupid, as Tilly and Wallenstein do in the field of Mars." "Your friends the Imperialists will have another tale to tell at Vienna, when Lord Nithsdale's nine thousand Scots unfurl their banners against them." "Señor--go--for now you annoy me." "I am incapable of doing so." "You tire me, then," she said, sharply. "I am deeply sorry for that." Prudentia saw that I was not to be beaten. A sudden gleam shot over her eyes; but she laughed, and half turning her back to me, began to read the comedy of "Florinea." "How very unkind of you--to be displeased, because I still wish to talk with you!" said I, still bent on banter. "Of what?" "The admiration with which you inspire me." "'Tis all very fine," she replied, keeping her back to me; "but none will love me as I would wish to be." "In what way would you be loved, señora."