This is how it is with Dona Demetria; she has no one but
her poor Santos to speak for her. If she had asked me to expose my
life in her service, that I could easily have done; but to speak for
her to a man who can read the almanac and knows the names of all the
stars in the sky, that kills me, senor. And who knows this better than
my mistress, who has been intimate with me from her infancy, when I
often carried her in my arms? I can only say this, senor; when I speak,
remember my poverty and that my mistress has no instrument except my
poor tongue to convey her wishes. Words has she told me to say to you,
but my devil of a memory has lost them all. What am I to do in this
case? If I wished to buy my neighbour's horse, and went to him and
said, 'Sell me your horse, neighbour, for I have fallen in love with
it and my heart is sick with desire, so that I must have it at any
price,' would that not be madness, senor? Yet I must be like that
imprudent person. I come to you for something, and all her expressions,
which were like rare flowers culled from a garden, have been lost by
the way. Therefore I can only say this thing which my mistress desires,
putting it in my own brute words, which are like wild flowers I have
myself gathered on the plain, that have neither fragrance nor beauty
to recommend them."
This quaint exordium did not advance matters much, but it had the
effect of rousing my attention and convincing me that the message
entrusted to Santos was one of very grave import.
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