“As you please,” said Leon putting out his hand. “Good-bye. You are off to-morrow with your father. I shall not be going to Madrid at present. We may not meet for some time.”
Pepa turned away and disappeared in the darkness of the room; Leon gazed after her but could see nothing. A faint perfume—as subtle as a dream was all the trace the Marquesita de Fúcar had left as she quitted the window.
“Pepa, Pepilla!” he called in a coaxing tone. But there was no reply, no sound, no sign from the darkness within. Presently, however, he heard a low sob. He remained some time calling her name at intervals, but receiving no answer. Still he heard the sighing, betraying that in the depths of that blackness lurked a sorrow.
At last he went away slowly and softly—as stealthily as a criminal and as gloomily as an assassin.
CHAPTER VII.
TWO MEN AND THEIR SCHEMES IN LIFE.
He stumbled over a root and at the same time felt a heavy hand laid on his shoulder, with the words: “Your money or your life.”
“Leave me in peace,” said Leon shaking off his friend and walking on.
But Cimarra put his hand through his arm and held him so that he was forced to spin round on one foot. Their tottering gait, and their position, arm in arm, might have led a spectator to fancy that the pair were tipsy; but this evil suspicion would have been dissipated by Cimarra’s next speech as he said, very gravely and with an accent of reproof in his harsh metallic voice: