It was sad that stern duty should put an end to these pretty love passages, but the moment of separation arrived inexorably, and, after a sad, passionate leave-taking, McKay tore himself away.
Mariquita for days was inconsolable. She brooded constantly in a corner, weeping silent tears, utterly absorbed in her grief. They considerately left her alone. Since she had become the affianced wife of a man of McKay's rank and position, both the termagant aunt and cross-grained uncle had treated her with unbounded respect. They would not allow her to be vexed or worried by any one, least of all by Benito, who, as soon as the English officer was out of the way, again began to haunt the house.
It was about her that they were having high words a day or two after McKay's departure.
Mariquita overheard them.
"You shall not see her, I tell you!" said La Zandunga, with shrill determination. "The sweet child is sad and sick at heart."
"She has broken mine, as you have your word to me. I shall never be happy more."
He spoke as though he was in great distress, and his grief, if false, was certainly well feigned.
"Bah!" said old Pedro. "No man ever died of unrequited love. There are as good fish in the sea."
"I wanted this one," said Benito, in deep dejection. "No matter; I am going away. There is a fine chance yonder, and I may perhaps forget her."
"Where, then?" asked the old woman.