"Well played, Don Tadeo! well played, by Heaven! For a moment I believed you were telling the truth."
"Oh!" Don Tadeo murmured, "this wretched being cannot recognise her own child."
"No, I do not believe it! It is not possible! Nature would have warned me that it was my child!"
"God renders those blind whom He would destroy, miserable woman! An exemplary punishment was due to His insulted justice!"
The Linda turned about in the toldo like a wild beast in a cage, uttering inarticulate cries, incessantly repeating in a broken voice—
"No, no! she cannot be my daughter!"
Don Tadeo experienced a feeling of deadly hatred, in spite of his better nature, at beholding this profound grief; he also wished to avenge himself.
"Senseless woman," he said, "had the child I stole from you no sign, no mark whatever, by which it would be possible for you to recognise her?"
"Yes, yes," she cried, roused from her stupor; "wait! wait!"
And she threw herself down upon her knees, leant over the sleeping Rosario, and tore the covering from her neck and shoulder.