Всадник без головы/Headless horseman (Томас Рид). Страница 302 из 662

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"

I

am

trembling

!

Or

is

it

the

breathing

of

the

horse

?

Valga

me

Dios

,

no

!

'

Tis

my

own

poor

nerves

!

"

I

never

felt

so

before

!

Is

it

fear

?

I

suppose

it

is

.

"

'

Tis

strange

though

--

to

fear

the

man

I

love

--

the

only

one

I

over

have

loved

:

for

it

could

not

have

been

love

I

had

for

Don

Miguel

.

A

girl

's

fancy

.

Fortunate

for

me

to

have

got

cured

of

it

!

Fortunate

my

discovering

him

to

be

a

coward

.

That

disenchanted

me

--

quite

dispelled

the

romantic

dream

in

which

he

was

the

foremost

figure

.

Thank

my

good

stars

,

for

the

disenchantment

;

for

now

I

hate

him

,

now

that

I

hear

he

has

grown

--

Santissima

!

can

it

be

true

that

he

has

become

--

a

--

a

salteador

?

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"

And

yet

I

should

have

no

fear

of

meeting

him

--

not

even

in

this

lone

spot

!

"

Ay

de

mi

!

Fearing

the

man

I

love

,

whom

I

believe

to

be

of

kind

,

noble

nature

--

and

having

no

dread

of

him

I

hate

,

and

know

to

be

cruel

and

remorseless

!

'

Tis

strange

--

incomprehensible

!

"

No

--

there

is

nothing

strange

in

it

.

I

tremble

not

from

any

thought

of

danger

--

only

the

danger

of

not

being

beloved

.

That

is

why

I

now

shiver

in

my

saddle

--

why

I

have

not

had

one

night

of

tranquil

sleep

since

my

deliverance

from

those

drunken

savages

.

"

I

have

never

told

him

of

this

;

nor

do

I

know

how

he

may

receive

the

confession

.

It

must

,

and

shall

be

made

.

I

can

endure

the

uncertainty

no

longer

.

In

preference

I

choose

despair

--

death

,

if

my

hopes

deceive

me

!

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"

Ha

!

There

is

a

hoof

stroke

!

A

horse

comes

down

the

road

!

It

is

his

?

Yes

.

I

see

glancing

through

the

trees

the

bright

hues

of

our

national

costume

.

He

delights

to

wear

it

.

No

wonder

;

it

so

becomes

him

!

"

Santa

Virgin

!

I

'm

under

a

serapé

,

with

a

sombrero

on

my

head

.

He

'll

mistake

me

for

a

man

!

Off

,

ye

ugly

disguises

,

and

let

me

seem

what

I

am

--

a

woman

.

"

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