"Doña Anita, my daughter," said he, in a slow and stern voice, "I have seen and heard everything; spare yourself, then, I beg you, all useless denial."
"My father!" the poor child stammered in a broken voice.
"Silence!" he continued. "It is three o'clock; we set out at sunrise. Prepare yourself to marry in a fortnight Don Gaëtano de Lhorailles."
And, without deigning to add a word, he walked out slowly, carefully closing the door after him.
As soon as she was alone the young girl bent down as if listening, tottered a few steps forward, raised her hands with a nervous gesture to her contracted throat—then, pealing forth a piercing cry, fell back on the floor.
She had fainted.
[CHAPTER VII.]
THE DUEL.
It was about eight in the evening when the Count de Lhorailles left the residence of Don Sylva de Torrés. The feria de plata was then in all its splendour. The streets of Guaymas were thronged with a joyful and motley crowd: the shouts of songs and laughter rose on every side. The piles of gold heaped on the monte tables emitted their yellow and intoxicating reflection in the dazzling gleams of the lights, that shone in every door and window: here and there the sounds of the vihuelas and jarabes escaped from the pulquerías, invaded by the drinkers. The count, elbowed and elbowing, traversed as quickly as was possible the dense groups which at every instant barred his passage; but the conversation he had had with Don Sylva had put him in too happy a temper for him to dream of being vexed at the numerous collisions he endured at every moment.