This was strange language. Had he not guessed already that my love for poor Cora Clark had brought me to the highlands? Such hypocrisy was sublime; I almost found admiration for it rising in my heart.
“See,” I cried, pointing out Chaleco, who stood at some distance on the shore, “yonder is the man with whom I left Greenhurst, and with whom I leave these hills in less than twenty-four hours.”
He stepped a pace forward, searching Chaleco with his eyes. The cloud went softly out from his face, and when he turned a look of confidence had supplanted it.
“Zana, is this the truth?”
“Why should I tell you aught but the truth?” I answered.
He looked eagerly into my eyes; his own flashed; his face took the expression of one who forms a sudden decision.
“And you leave to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
“And for Granada?”
“For Granada, I suppose.”