“Let us not deceive each other,” he insisted.  “We are alone.  Let us be honest.  Do not ask me to put faith in your grief.  I find my excuse in the extraordinary nature of this situation.”

“Nothing can excuse indelicacy,” she answered, evenly.  “You transgress the commonest rules of decency.”

But he was impatient.  “What sentiment!  You did not love your husband.  You were for years his prisoner.  Through the bars of your prison I saw and loved you.  Dios!  The first sight of your face altered the current of my life.  I saw heaven in your eyes, and I have dreamed of nothing else ever since.  Well, Providence opened the doors and set you free; God gave heed to my prayers and delivered you to me.  Now you pretend to grieve at your deliverance; you ask me to respect the memory of your jailer!  Decency?  Delicacy?  What are they except artificialities, which vanish in times of stress?  Alexander the Great, Caesar, Napoleon, Porfirio Diaz—­they were strong, purposeful men; they lived as I live.  Senora, you dally with love.”

Alaire’s face was white with anger as she replied:  “You cause me to forget that you are my guest.  Are you the man I considered you or the man you are reported to be?”

“Eh?”

“Are you the gentleman, the friend, you pretended to be, or—­the vandal whom no woman can trust?  You treat me as if you were my jailer.  What do you mean?  What kind of man are you to take advantage of my bereavement?”

After a moment’s consideration Longorio began haltingly:  “I don’t know what kind of man I am, for you have changed me so.  There was a time—­I—­I have done things—­I have scorned all restraint, all laws except those of my desires, and so, perhaps, I am a vandal.  Make sure of this, however—­I shall not injure you.  Christ is no more sacred to me than you, my heart’s treasure.  You accuse me of indelicacy because I lack the strength to smother my admiration.  I adore you; my being dissolves, my veins are afire with longing for you; I am mad with the knowledge that you are mine.  Mad?  Caramba!  I am insane; my mind totters; I grope my way like a man blinded by a dazzling light; I suffer agonies.  But see!  I refuse to touch you.  I am a giant in my restraint.  The strength of heroes is mine, and I strangle my impulses as they are born, although the effort kills me.  Senora, I await the moment of your voluntary surrender.  I wait for you.”  He extended his arms, and Alaire saw that his olive features were distorted with emotion; that his hands, his whole thin, high-strung body were shaking uncontrollably.

She could summon no coherent words.