"Don Sebastiao ought to know how anxious we are to receive news of my father. I confess I am more concerned about it than I can explain."
"My dear, our parts are changed," said the marchioness; "it is you who fear, and I who hope."
"That's true, mother. I have misgivings about this journey. The warnings of Don Emile; his precipitate departure; what Don José told you yesterday, and even the courteous manner of Don Pablo, and the attentions which he heaps upon us, increase my suspicions. The more we advance in this direction, the more I am disquieted. Is it presentiment, or low spirits? I cannot tell you, mother."
"You are mad, Eva," answered the marchioness; "your presentiments arise from low spirits. What can we have further to fear. The men in whose hands we now are are completely masters of our fate."
At this moment the gallop of a horse was heard; the ladies turned, and a horseman passed rapidly, slightly jolting against them, doubtless on account of the narrowness of the path.
But quickly as this man had passed, he had time to skilfully throw on the knees of the marchioness a Book of Hours, bound in red morocco, and closed by clasps in chased gold.
The marchioness uttered a cry of astonishment, as she placed her hand on the book.
This prayer book was the one she had given some days before to the young painter. How was it that he returned it to her in such a singular way?
His pace had been so rapid, and the brim of his hat had so thoroughly concealed his face, that the marchioness did not recognise him.
We have said that the two ladies were almost alone; in fact, the soldiers walked at some distance before and behind. The marchioness assured herself that no one observed them, and opened the book.