“What shall I do, grandame? What can you think of to save me? They will tear me to pieces.”
“What shall I do?—why, take my right as a count’s widow—murder you myself—bury you myself!”
“Grandame!” exclaimed the child, with a cry of horror.
“And when they think your body deep in the Darro,” continued the old crone, without noticing the cry, “Papita will be sitting here with gold in her lap, and her pretty little Aurora shall be married to the Busne, and far beyond the mountains!”
Another cry, in which the love of that young heart leaped forth in an agony of joy, made the Sibyl pause; but it was only for a moment.
“Then my little one shall think of the poor old gipsy in her cave, and send more gold—more and more, till power shall indeed return to Papita.”
But my mother sat upon the pallet wringing her hands, and utterly abandoned to her grief once more. That one gleam of joy had turned upon her heart sharper than a sword. She remembered why she had fled from the Alhambra that night.
“What is this?” said the old woman, sharply. “Tears again? Bah, I am tired of them—speak!”
“Grandame,” sobbed the wretched girl, gasping for breath, for she felt that her last hold on life was going, “the Busne cannot save me—he will not marry a gipsy girl.”
“He shall!” snarled the old woman. “By that he shall!” and she pointed toward her idol.