The Squatter and the Don. María Amparo Ruiz de Burton

expression flashed instantaneously, and both felt each other tremble, thrilled with the bliss of their proximity. Her face was suffused with burning blushes. She was bewildered, and without daring to meet his eyes again, stammered an apology; extending her hand, to reach some chair or table to hold herself, but they all were crowded at both ends of the piazza.

      “You are hurt. I am afraid you are hurt,” said he, with pale lips, reflecting the pallor he saw come to her face, succeeding her crimson blush. “I know you are suffering. What can I do? I am so sorry!”

      “O no, I only turned my foot a little,” she answered, venturing to look at him for an instant. “I shall be all right in a minute.”

      “If you turned your foot, don't put any weight upon it. Do not try to walk, let me carry you to a chair.”

      “O no, no! I am not so much hurt as to require giving all that trouble.”

      “Please let me. It will be no trouble; only a great pleasure.” He was in earnest and spoke quite seriously. “Are you afraid I could not carry you?”

      “No, not that, but it is not necessary,” and she tried to walk. A quick, sharp, burning pain through her ankle admonished her that she was more hurt than she had believed. A slight contraction of her brows betrayed her pain.

      “There! You will hurt yourself worse,” said he, and before she knew what he was going to do, he stooped a little and lifted her as easily as if she had been a little child. She had no time to think whether to be grateful or offended, for he quickly walked to the further end of the piazza and carefully placed her in a roomy arm chair. Then bending a knee before her, said:

      “Forgive my lifting you without your permission. I knew you would not give it, and I knew also that you were suffering. Will you forgive me?” His voice was soft, caressing, pleading, but his eyes seemed to her to emit rays full of attractive, earnest force which she felt had great power. They dazzled her, and yet those eyes were so mild, so kind. She looked down, making no answer. “When Don Victoriano comes he can carry you to bed, and—please—take my advice, stay there until the pain has entirely left your foot.”

      She ventured to look at his eyes again. Who could this strong young man be, so bold, and yet so gentle, so courteous and yet waiting for no permission to take so positively hold of her, to carry her bodily half the length of the piazza. And now so respectfully asking on his knees to be forgiven? Asking with tones of tender humility in his voice, while his eyes she knew could emanate subduing magnetic beams.

      “How do you know Victoriano is coming? He went out riding,” she said, evading the question of forgiveness, and for the sake of making some reply that would hide her confusion.

      “Yes, but I met him and he returned with me. He has gone to look for Señor Alamar, I came to see him on business,” said the respectful young man, still on his knees.

      “Do you know my father?”

      “Only very slightly.” They were silent. He added: “I met him a few days ago when he had that meeting with the squatters.”

      “Were you at the meeting?” said she, avoiding his gaze.

      “Yes,” he said, watching her beautiful face. What would she think of him, believing him a Squatter, one who came to take land that did not belong to him? How he wished that she would look up, that he might see her lovely eyes again, for if to her his eyes seemed so glorious, to him hers fascinated, conquered, with a power that he never thought could exist in any human being. Trembling, he felt that he was madly in love with her. Yes, already in love. Love at first sight, surely. But if it killed him, no matter, he would love her to the last instant of his life.

      Voices were heard approaching through the hall. He stood up and walked towards the door. Señor Alamar came forward and shook hands with him. Victoriano explained the reason of his delay being, that he had to look for his father all over the house, and at last found him in the furthest “corral” looking at some new colts just brought in.

      “I am glad that Mercedes came to converse with you,” said Victoriano.

      “I did not come to converse. I did not know that the gentleman was here. I came by accident,” she hastened to reply. “I was trying to catch Milord when I stumbled and would have fallen, had not this gentleman prevented it.” So saying, she blushed anew; her blushes being immediately reflected on Clarence's forehead, made them both look like a couple of culprits.

      “I fear the lady's foot is hurt,” said he.

      “Is it?” exclaimed Don Mariano, going towards Mercedes. “Does it pain you baby?”

      “Yes papa, a little. It burns me. Do you think it would be bad for me to walk to my room?”

      “Of course it would,” Clarence said, and blushed redder yet at his temerity.

      “Can you stand on your foot?” Victoriano asked.

      “I don't know.”

      “Don't try. I'll carry you to your room,” said her father.

      “Women have no business to have such small feet. They are always stumbling and can't walk worth a cent,” said Victoriano, going to look at his sister's foot. “See here. No wonder they stumble. Look at the little slipper. Why don't they wear good broad boots?” So saying he took off the little slipper, which seemed made for a Cinderella.

      “You are too absurd,” said Mercedes, blushing again, to see her slipper brandished aloft, in the face of a stranger.

      “I ain't. It's women's feet that are absurd.”

      “When we want the ladies to be infantry soldiers, then we will ask them to cultivate big feet,” said Don Mariano, laughing.

      “But not until then, please,” said Clarence, smiling.

      “Aha! I see you cherish the general male weakness,” said Victoriano, kneeling before his sister to put on the little slipper. “I am the only strong-minded man, I know. Come, pussy, I'll carry you to your room.”

      “No, no. You take me, papa, Tano might drop me.”

      “Nonsense; as if I couldn't carry a kitten like you.”

      “Papa, you take me, but not to bed. Put me on the lounge in mamma's room, and call Madam Halier to me.”

      “All right; anything to please the children,” said Don Mariano, stooping to lift her.

      She put her arms around his neck, and whispered: “Papa, who is this young man? I never saw him.”

      “That is a fact,” said Don Mariano, taking her up, and turning toward Clarence, said: “Mr. Darrell, permit me to present you to my daughter, Mercedes, ‘our baby.’ ” So saying, he dandled her a little in his arms.

      “Oh, papa, you make me ridiculous! How can I bow like a lady, when you are rocking me like an infant!” she said, laughing, but blushing again like a rose.

      “Shake hands with the gentleman, that's a dear,” said Victoriano, talking baby talk to her.

      “Oh, papa, make Tano hush. Mr. Darrell, I am afraid that I shall always seem ridiculous to you.”

      “Not at all; I don't see why,” Clarence replied, “but I fear that your hurt might be serious.”

      “That's it. You might be ridiculous, but your hurt might be serious,” said Victoriano.

      It was Clarence's turn to blush now, but he smiled good naturedly.

      “You won't be serious, though. I wish you were, and polite, too,” said Mercedes. “I don't know what Mr. Darrell will think of us.”

      “Mr. Darrell will see us often, I hope, and think better of Tano,” said Don Mariano, carrying away his precious burden.

      “My opinion is all that you could wish, Miss Mercedes,” said Clarence, and their eyes met, transmitting that strange thrill to both.

      Don