As she ceased, a measured voice, with a foreign accent, thrilled through her.
“In the East, they say the nightingale sings to the rose; Devon, more happy, has nightingale and rose in one.”
“We have no nightingales in Devon, Don Guzman,” said Lady Grenville; “but our little forest thrushes sing, as you hear, sweetly enough to content any ear. But what brings you away from the gentlemen so early?”
“These letters,” said he, “which have just been put into my hand; and as they call me home to Spain, I was loath to lose a moment of that delightful company from which I must part so soon.”
“To Spain?” asked half-a-dozen voices: for the Don was a general favorite.
“Yes, and thence to the Indies. My ransom has arrived, and with it the promise of an office. I am to be Governor of La Guayra in Caracas. Congratulate me on my promotion.”
A mist was over Rose's eyes. The Spaniard's voice was hard and flippant. Did he care for her, after all? And if he did, was it nevertheless hopeless? How her cheeks glowed! Everybody must see it! Anything to turn away their attention from her, and in that nervous haste which makes people speak, and speak foolishly too, just because they ought to be silent, she asked—
“And where is La Guayra?”
“Half round the world, on the coast of the Spanish Main. The loveliest place on earth, and the loveliest governor's house, in a forest of palms at the foot of a mountain eight thousand feet high: I shall only want a wife there to be in paradise.”
“I don't doubt that you may persuade some fair lady of Seville to accompany you thither,” said Lady Grenville.