Florentina kissed her tenderly, and then freeing herself with a start, or rather a wild and sudden leap, the child—or woman—fled to a brake close at hand; the brushwood seemed to open and swallow her up.
"Nela, Nela—little sister!" cried Florentina in much distress.
"Farewell, child of my eyes!" said Nela, turning round to look at her once more; and she vanished in the copse.
Florentina listened to the rustle of the branches, as the hunter listens to the rush of the prey that has escaped him. Then all was silent; not a sound was to be heard but the vague monotone that fills the atmosphere at noon in the open country—a sound which seems to be the whisper of our own thoughts as they go forth towards all that surrounds us. Florentina stood amazed, powerless, speechless, deeply distressed—as if she had just seen some fond illusion snatched from her gaze. She did not know what to think of it all, and even her unbounded kind-heartedness, which often crippled her judgment, could supply no explanation.
She had been standing in the same spot for some little time, her head drooping, her cheeks tingling, and her blue eyes full of tears, when Teodoro Golfin happened to come upon her, making his way at an easy pace from Aldeacorba homewards. The doctor was greatly astonished to find the young lady alone and with an expression of vexation and regret which, far from diminishing her beauty, added to it and made it more interesting.
"What ails the girl?" he exclaimed with some anxiety. "Why, Florentina, what is the matter?"
"A dreadful thing, Señor Golfin," said Florentina, wiping her eyes. "I was thinking—considering how many terrible things there are in the world."
"And what are these terrible things, Señorita? Where have you been? Can anything have happened to you?"
"Provoking things—and of all things there is one which is more provoking than all the rest."
"What is that?"