“No: we parted late last night; I have not been to bed.”
“Very bad preparation for a march; take some burned brandy in your coffee.”
“Then you don’t think the senhora will appear?”
“Very unlikely. But stay, you know her room,—the small drawing-room that looks out upon the flower-garden; she usually passes the morning there. Leap the little wooden paling round the corner, and the chances are ten to one you find her.”
I saw from the occupied air of Don Antonio that there was little fear of interruption on his part; so taking an early moment to escape unobserved, I rose and left the room. When I sprang over the oak fence, I found myself in a delicious little garden, where roses, grown to a height never seen in our colder climate, formed a deep bower of rich blossom.
The major was right. The senhora was in the room, and in one moment I was beside her.
“Nothing but my fears of not bidding you farewell could palliate my thus intruding, Donna Inez; but as we are ordered away—”
“When? Not so soon, surely?”
“Even so; to-day, this very hour. But you see that even in the hurry of departure, I have not forgotten my trust; this is the packet I promised you.”
So saying, I placed the paper with the lock of hair within her hand, and bending downwards, pressed my lips upon her taper fingers. She hurriedly snatched her hand away, and tearing open the enclosure, took out the lock. She looked steadily for a moment at it, then at me, and again at it, and at length, bursting into a fit of laughing, threw herself upon a chair in a very ecstasy of mirth.