"Ready!" the Frenchman replied, laughing; "Caramba! I should be in despair at losing such an opportunity of judging whether you understand getting up revolutions as well as we Frenchmen do."
"Oh! We are but young at the work yet," Don Tadeo remarked; "and yet we begin to have some idea of the matter, I assure you."
"Good-bye, Louis, for a time," said Valentine, pressing his friend's hand; and stooping towards his ear, he added—"Be thankful to your stars, do you not see that Heaven protects your love?" The young man only replied by shaking his head despondingly, and sighing deeply. A peon had brought the horses for the two Chilians and the Frenchman, and they were soon in the saddle. They set off at a quick pace, and were quickly lost in the high grass and the windings of the road. Louis returned pensively to the camp, where he found Doña Rosario alone in her tent; the two Indian chiefs, attracted by curiosity, having gone in the direction of the chapel, where, mingled with the crowd, they might be present at the ceremony. The arrieros and the peons had not been long in following their example.
The young girl was seated on a heap of dyed sheepskins in front of the tent, dreamily looking at, but without seeing, the clouds which were driven across the heavens by a strong breeze. Doña Rosario was a charming girl of sixteen, slender, fragile, and delicate, small in person, whose least gestures and least movements possessed inexpressible attractions. Of a rare kind of beauty in America, she was fair; her long silky hair was of the colour of ripe golden corn; her blue eyes, in which were reflected the azure of the heavens, had that melancholy, dreamy expression which we attribute only to angels, and young girls who are beginning to love; her nose, with its pinky nostrils, was inclined to be aquiline; while her mouth, rather serious, with rosy lips set off by teeth of dazzling whiteness, and her skin of pearl-like purity, altogether made her a charming creature.
The noise of the approaching young man's steps roused her from her reverie. She turned her head in the direction, and looked at him with inexpressible sadness, although a faint smile played upon her lips.
"It is I," said the Count, in a low, inarticulate voice, bowing respectfully.
"I knew of your coming," she replied, in a sweetly-toned voice. "Oh! why did you return to me at all?"
"Be not angry with me for drawing near you once more. I endeavoured to obey you; I left the spot you resided in, without, alas! even the hope of seeing you again; but destiny has decided otherwise."
She gave him a long and eloquent look.
"Unfortunately," he continued, with a melancholy smile, "you are condemned for some hours to endure my presence."