“He never denied me anything; my happiness is his; and here he comes.”
Dom Maxara and the missionary at this moment entered the cabin. The former had only just heard of his daughter’s wound, and as it had been exaggerated, his face, pale from loss of blood, showed great anxiety. Rising, the girl threw herself into her father’s arms.
“Oh, father, I am so happy!” she sobbed.
The old man’s grey hair mixed with the dark tresses of his daughter, as he bent over and soothed her, Wyzinski standing for a moment as if astonished at the scene.
“Pardon me, Dom Maxara, you had better conduct the Dona Isabel to her cabin, and I will dress the wound. It is but slight, and I am a bit of a surgeon.”
“I thank you, Senhor,” replied the old Portuguese, again assuming all the stateliness of manner which usually characterised him. “Come, Isabel.”
Isabel de Maxara turned, gave one look at her lover—a glance teeming with gratitude and love, even though the eyes were running over with tears, as she held out her hand. Hughes pressed it to his lips, and the next moment she was gone.
“The Dona Isabel might have a cleaner lover,” observed Wyzinski, after a long silence.
It was the first time Captain Hughes had been conscious of his dirt-begrimed, ragged condition; would he have risked the confession he had made, had he been aware of it?