No denial of the fact, Juana; those
black bruises avouch it without a tongue."--Juana held down her head,
colour mounted into her cheeks, tears suffused her eyes, her bosom
heaved convulsively, and for some moments she was silent from confusion,
shame, grief, and gratitude. At length, withdrawing her hand from the
affectionate grasp of Pedro, and dashing it athwart her eyes, she looked
up and said mildly, "Thanks, many thanks, dear cousin, for your
kindness. I cannot dissemble with you; what would you have me do? I
could not _beat_ him in return; and, oh! save him from the arm of
my brothers!"--"What have you always done?"--"Borne his stripes, and
called for help upon St. Jago, St. Francis Xavier, St. Benedict, and
St. Nicholas!"--"And did you never invoke the three holy Maries?"--
"Never."--"Then that's what you ought to have done," returned Senor
Pedrillo, with the utmost gravity. "Now mind me,--call upon _them_
for aid next time your husband maltreats you."--"Alas!" sighed the
afflicted wife, "_that_ will most surely be to-night. I've not much
faith in your remedy, Pedro; but may be there's no harm in trying
it."--"Farewell, then, my poor, pretty, patient, black-bruised cousin,"
cried Pedrillo; "next time you see the _doctor_, let him know how his
remedy has sped;" and with a comical expression of countenance, half
melancholy, half mirthful, the "trusty and well-beloved cousin"
departed.
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