And completely restored to good humour by this soliloquy, the painter entered the tambo.
The two ladies were half reclining on the skins before a fire lit by the Guarani. Scarcely recovered from the perils and the terrors they had undergone, they remained motionless and silent, their countenances pale, and their eyes half-closed absorbed in their own thoughts, not knowing whether they ought to be glad or sorry at being at last sheltered from danger, and at having escaped the fury of the tempest.
At the entry of the young painter, a faint smile appeared upon their faces.
"So," said the marchioness, after a stealthy glance at her daughter, "it is, thanks to your courage, and to your presence of mind, that we have escaped from a frightful death?"
"I have only been an instrument in the hand of God."
"This Indian has told me all," said the marchioness, designating Tyro by a gesture. "I know that now Don Pablo Pincheyra, bound by the gratitude which he owes you, would not dare to refuse you anything."
"Don Pablo was not alone, Madame."
"In fact, Don Sebastiao Vianna accompanies him, they say."
The painter smiled slyly.
"You laugh, Don Emile," she cried.