“Yes, and Pueblos too,—he is dead!”
“Not the little child that I remember—”
“The same. He grew up to be a fine man; some thought him handsomer than my father. My mother's family would have made a priest of him, but he chose the prouder destiny.”
“I cannot think of him but as the child,—the little fellow who played about my knees; dressed like a matador, his long silky hair in a net.”
“Oh, do not——do not speak of him,” cried the girl, burying her face between her hands; “my heart will not bear those memories.”
The priest's face was lighted up with a malevolent delight as he bent over her, as if revelling in the thought the emotions could call up.
“Poor little fellow!” said he, as if to himself. “How I remember his bolero that he danced for me.” He stopped, and she sobbed bitterly. “He said that Lola taught him.”
She looked up; the tears were fast coursing along her cheeks, which were pale as death.
“Eustace,” said she, tremulously, “these thoughts will drive me mad; my brain is reeling even now.”
“Let us talk of something else, then,” said he. “When did you leave the 'Opera'—and why?”