"
"No person will ever know that I met you here," she returned--so
bashful, yet so persistent.
"I have forgotten all my stories," I said.
"Then, senor, I will go and find you another _ramo_ of lilies
while you think of one to tell me."
"No," I said, "you must get no more lilies for me. Look, I will give
you back these you gave me." And, saying that, I fastened them in her
black hair, where by contrast they looked very splendid, and gave the
girl a new grace. "Ah, Monica, they make you look too pretty--let me
take them out again."
But she would not have them taken. "I will leave you now to think of
a story for me," she said, blushing and turning away.
Then I took her hands and made her face me. "Listen, Monica," I said.
"Do you know that these lilies are full of strange magic? See how
crimson they are; that is the colour of passion, for they have been
steeped in passion, and turn my heart to fire. If you bring me any
more of them, Monica, I shall tell you a story that will make you
tremble with fear--tremble like the willow-leaves and turn pale as the
mist over the Yi."
She smiled at my words; it was like a ray of sunlight falling through
the foliage on her face. Then, in a voice that was almost a whisper,
she said, "What will the story be about, senor? Tell me, then I shall
know whether to gather lilies for you or not."
"It will be about a stranger meeting a sweet, pale girl standing under
the trees, her dark eyes cast down, and red lilies in her hand; and
how she asked him for a story, but he could speak to her of nothing
but love, love, love.
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