Doña Angela, seated on a butaca, and having Violanta at her feet, was engaged with her needlework. On seeing her father and the persons who accompanied him enter, a vivid blush purpled her cheeks, but almost immediately she turned pale as death. Still she contrived to subdue the emotion she felt, rose, bowed silently, and sat down again. The general regarded her for a moment with a mingled expression of tenderness and anger; then turning suddenly to the missionary, he said in a stifled voice,—
"Speak to her, my father; I do not feel the strength to do so."
The maiden smiled sadly.
"My good padre," she said to the missionary, "I thank you for the useless attempt you are making on me today. My resolution is formed: nothing will alter it—it is impossible. I will never return to my family."
"Unhappy child!" the general exclaimed with sorrow, "what reason urged you to abandon me thus?"
"I do all justice to your kindness and tenderness toward me, father," she answered with a melancholy air. "Alas! that unbounded tenderness and the liberty you ever allowed me to enjoy are perhaps the cause of what happens today. I do not wish to reproach you. My destiny has taken possession of me: I will endure the consequences of the fault I have committed."
The general frowned and stamped his foot on the ground passionately.
"Angela, my well-beloved child!" he continued bitterly, "reflect that the scandal occasioned by your flight will dishonour you for ever."
A contemptuous smile played round the maidens pallid lips.
"What do I care?" she said. "The world in which you live is no longer mine. All my joy and sorrow will be henceforth concentrated here."