“Look on your mother’s murderer, woman of the Caloes—look for the last time. He has covered your face with shame, driven you forth from his people. Come to us, it is time. The tribes of Granada know that the true blood has avenged itself here. They will recognize those symbols of Papita, their prophetess—they will forgive the base blood in your heart, and you shall be a queen to them. Chaleco promises.”
With an effort that seemed like a wrench on every nerve in my body, I turned away my eyes from the dark head of the gipsy count, and they rested on the holy stillness of my father’s death-sleep. The light gleamed over him; the sublime repose of his features had deepened till he almost smiled. Contrasted with that heavenly face, Chaleco seemed a demon tempting me.
I fell upon my knees once more. The weight left my brain and chest. Tears are sometimes sweeter and more holy than prayer. I wept freely.
When I arose, Chaleco stood beside me, but the power of his fierce eyes was gone. The unnatural influence that he had obtained over me was lost in the more sublime impressions left by that tranquil face.
“Go,” I said, gently; “I am not prepared to follow yet.”
“Wait till these gentiles spurn you away then!” he answered, in a fierce whisper; “they will do it. No fear, I can wait.”
“God only knows what they will do,” I said; “but I was not made for an avenger. Children do not turn and rend those who gave them life. Look there, how he smiles, and yet I killed him. You call this vengeance—it is murder!”
“Fool!” he exclaimed, “fool! but wait, wait!”
He waved his hand toward me as if to forbid any movement; and going to an antique cabinet which I remembered well, began to search in its drawers. I saw him take out two or three articles which he thrust in his bosom, then with a dark look toward the bed he disappeared. I know not how, for when I would have stopped his progress the velvet drapery swayed between me and him, as if dashed down with a sweep of his arm. When I searched behind that, he was gone.
On the next day my father was buried. I did not attempt to join the procession, or force myself on the notice of those who had assembled to render the last honors to his memory. Strangers could walk close by his bier; I looked on like a wild animal through the thick trees that concealed me. It was a bitter thought, and something of old resentments kept me dumb as the funeral train swept by.