"That occurred to me; but I don’t see how he could have known it." "You are no match for him, Ferdinand. But there is no merit in his act even if sincere. He did not say the matter was already completed and the papers executed, did he?" "It will be made as soon as the formalities can be complied with." She laughed again and shook her head sceptically. "It is a safe promise—for he knows." "Knows what?" "What will happen—before the formalities will be complied with." Her tone was thoughtful, and very serious; and she sighed. "I think I know what you mean, and I am glad to be in time." She was leaning her face on her hand, and lifted it to look up in surprise. "I want to warn you, too, Sarita—I know you are in danger—and to urge you to abandon this." "You think I am in danger? Ah, Ferdinand, you do not know the under-currents. What do you think my real danger is?" "I know you are in danger of arrest; and I urge you to come to England and be free." "Would that be serving my country and my cause?" "It would be serving your family." She laughed, and the music of her laughter was indescribably sweet. "Family," she repeated, half-mischievously, half-earnestly. "I believe you are very much in earnest, Ferdinand, and I forgive you. I am not quite sure you are not foolish. But if anyone else said that, do you think I could hear another syllable from them? It is a counsel of treachery; and such counsel comes ill from the lips of a friend." "You allow now that I am a friend then?" "How solemn you English are, when—when you are solemn!" she cried, smiling again. "Do I think you are a friend? Yes, I do, in all truth. I know it. We shall not quarrel again. I believe you are so much my friend that, if I would let you, you would ruin yourself for me. That is how you would read friendship and how I read you. But I will not let my family do that." "And how may I read you?" I said, quickly. "How _do_ you read me?" she retorted, with unwonted eagerness. "How would you have me read you?" "How would I have you read me?" She paused, glanced away, and then, looking me straight in the eyes, answered seriously and meaningly. "As what I am, not as what I might have been. You of all the world must not make the mistake of confusing the two." "I do not mistake. What you might have been is what you shall be, Sarita," I said, earnestly—so earnestly that the expression in her eyes changed slightly, and she turned them away and started, and I thought she trembled. She knew my meaning; and after a moment or two, in which she had forced under the feelings that seemed to have surprised herself, she said calmly and almost formally—