“But we must speak of them—they have possession of your rights.”
“What are those rights?”
“A title—an immense property—power in this proud country—power to help the poor Caloes,” he answered with enthusiasm—“the power to redeem your mother’s name among the haughty souls that reviled her—to give back her memory to the gipsies of Granada pure as the purest among their women.”
“But they murdered her—innocent as she was, they murdered her!” I cried, shuddering and cold with memories that always froze me to the heart.
A gloomy look stole over Chaleco’s face; his hand fell loosely down, and he whispered huskily, as if to convince himself:
“I could not help it; she gave herself up. They all thought the stain of his unmarried lips was on her forehead. She would die—it was he that killed her, not the gipsies—never say it again while you live, Zana, never.”
I could not answer, but felt myself turning white and cold. He saw it, and grasped my hand, crying out with fierce exultation:
“But she is avenged, and now that we have the power, this proud woman and vile boy shall bite the dust, Zana. We will strip them, humble them, trample them beneath our gipsy feet. Aurora shall be twice avenged.”
“Let me think,” I said, drearily pressing my forehead to still the pain there; “I have tasted this revenge once, and it was terrible; when such fruit falls, dare we shake the vine again?”
“Again and again,” was the fierce cry, “till power itself fails. Are you thinking of mercy, child?”