“Your oath. Is he dead, then? Is it his blood that makes your face so white!”
“No, he is safe—it may be, happy,” answered my mother, and for the first time since we left England, I heard her voice falter. “He repudiates the caloe marriage. He loves another. I saw her under his roof. He will make her his wife. Grandame, I have come back to die. It is all of my oath that I can redeem.”
“Under his roof? he will marry her. Girl, where was Papita’s poniard, that you did not strike?”
“She looked innocent in her sleep. I could not do it. She knew nothing of me, of my wrongs, or the vengeance that threatened her. A word would have stabbed her deeper than your poniard, grandame, but I could not speak it.”
“You came away, and left her alive?” shrieked the old woman fiercely.
“I could not kill the thing he loved,” answered my mother, with pale firmness.
“You came away, leaving these two traitors to marry and scoff at the gipsy!”
“The lady knows nothing, and cannot scoff at us. He will never revile one who could have driven her from his path by pointing to his child, and saying only, ‘he has been mine!’ but chose rather to come here and die.”
“It is useless, grandame—these frowns, the locking of those sharp teeth. The desperate have no fear. I have disgraced my people, and am ready to redeem my oath.”
“And what is this?” said Papita, touching me with a loathing scowl.