It was all a fancy of her disordered imagination.

"She is crazy," again affirmed the hidden counselor in his brain.
"I have dreamed many times," she continued, "of a man who would rob for me, who would kill if it was necessary and might have to pass the rest of his years in prison....

My poor thief!...

I would live only for him, spending night and day near the walls of his prison, looking through the bars, working like a woman of the village in order to send a good dinner to my outlaw....

That is genuine love and not the cold lies, the theatrical vows of our world." Ulysses repeated his mental comment, "She certainly is crazy"-- and his thought was so clearly reflected in his eyes that she guessed it.
"Don't be afraid, Ferragut," she said, smiling.