"Especially my daughter, I presume," the other remarked with a sardonic smile.
"Yes," the Tigrero said, "especially the señorita."
"What else is to be done? for I must return there—with my daughter," he added, purposely laying stress on the last three words, "and that so soon as possible."
The Tigrero did not utter the exact truth in telling Don Sylva they were thirty leagues from the colony. It was not more than eighteen; but in a country like this, where roads do not exist, fifteen leagues are an almost insurmountable obstacle to a man not thoroughly acquainted with desert life. Don Sylva, though he had never travelled under other than favourable circumstances—that is to say, with all the comfort it is possible to obtain in these remote regions—was aware, theoretically, if not practically, of all the difficulties which would rise before him with each step, and what obstacles would check his movements. His resolution was made almost immediately.
Don Sylva, like a good many of his countrymen, was gifted with rare obstinacy. When he had formed a plan, the greater the obstacles which prevented its accomplishment, the greater his determination to carry it out.
"Listen," he said to Don Martial; "I wish to be frank with you. I fancy I tell you nothing new in announcing my daughter's marriage with the Count de Lhorailles. That marriage must be performed: I have sworn it, and it shall be, whatever may be said or done to impede it. And now I am about to make trial of the devotion you boast of offering me."
"Speak, señor."
"You will send your companion to the Count de Lhorailles; he will carry him a message to calm his uneasiness and announce my speedy arrival."
"Good!"
"Will you do it?"