He snatched the light and went into the little sleeping cell. The bed was there, covered with fine old chintz. A little table and two chairs stood in their several places. The scent of fresh flowers filled the cell, which, by its cleanliness, its little ornaments, and the fragrance that floated on the close air proved that its occupant was no ordinary woman of her tribe. But everything was silent. No sparkling eyes full of mischief, no wild laugh met the young gipsy as he expected. He stood a moment with the candle held up, gazing around the room; then a painful thought seemed to strike him. He turned and fixed his eyes on the old woman.
“Where is she?”
It was all he said, but there was something fierce in the question.
“She went to the Alhambra this morning, and has not come back yet.”
The old woman did not lift her eyes as she spoke; why, she herself could not have explained; but every time that night, when word or thought had turned to her grandchild, this strange cowardice seized her.
“I will go seek Aurora,” said the young gipsy, striding towards the door.
“You!” cried the old woman, springing like a tigress between him and the entrance. “Would you break the betrothal? Would you cast shame on my blood? Would you have the whole tribe hooting at you both?”
The chief hesitated. He knew well that the gipsy law prohibited the act he meditated. That for a betrothed pair to wander alone, or arrange a meeting beyond the confines of the settlement, would sunder them forever. He thought of this and hesitated. But the hot blood of a jealous nature was on his forehead; he could hardly restrain himself.
“With what man of our tribe does she wander at this time of night?” he demanded, fiercely.
“With none; she has scarcely spoken to man or woman of our people since you left for Seville,” replied the old woman, with a look of earnest truth that could not but appease his suspicions in that quarter.