“To go away—you!”
A strange light shone in Doña Perfecta’s eyes. The canon, experienced though he was in dissimulation, could not conceal his joy.
“Yes, and perhaps this very night.”
“Why, man, how impetuous you are; Why don’t you at least wait until morning? Here—Juan, let some one go for Uncle Licurgo to get the nag ready. I suppose you will take some luncheon with you. Nicolasa, that piece of veal that is on the sideboard! Librada, the señorito’s linen.”
“No, I cannot believe that you would take so rash a resolution,” said Don Cayetano, thinking himself obliged to take some part in the question.
“But you will come back, will you not?” asked the canon.
“At what time does the morning train pass?” asked Doña Perfecta, in whose eyes was clearly discernible the feverish impatience of her exaltation.
“I am going away to-night.”
“But there is no moon.”
In the soul of Doña Perfecta, in the soul of the Penitentiary, in the little doctor’s youthful soul echoed like a celestial harmony the word, “To-night!”