"But I have no right to ask it."
"Tell me what it is," I implored.
"I would not, if it didn't mean more than my life to me." He hesitated,
and then, while I wondered what was to come, he bent forward and spoke a
few hurried words in Spanish. He knew that to me Spanish was almost as
familiar as English. He had heard me talk of the Spanish customs still
existing in the part of California where I was born. He had heard me
sing Spanish songs. We had sung them together--one or two I had taught
him. But I had not taught him the language. He learned that, and three
or four others at least, as a boy, when first he thought of taking up a
diplomatic career.
They were so few words, and so quickly spoken, that I--remembering the
warder--almost hoped they might pass unnoticed. But the man in uniform
came nearer to us at once, looking angry and suspicious.
"That is forbidden," he said to Ivor. Then, turning sharply to me. "What
language was that?"
"Spanish," I answered. "He only bade me good-bye. We have been--very
dear friends, and there was a misunderstanding, but--it's over now. It
was natural he shouldn't want you to hear his last words to me.
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