"It is, indeed, a devil of a predicament," he muttered.
Again and again he called her name aloud, without hearing other response than the echoes. The place was mournfully still, and now the wind and rain had ceased, and the night had become calm. Well, there was some comfort in that; with morning he might resume his journey; but this Spanish girl—his heart trembled for her, for there seemed to be no extravagant impulse to which she was not capable of giving way.
To have responded to her wayward love, and then to have "levanted" on the first convenient opportunity, "a way we (sometimes) have in the army," might have been the treacherous measure adopted by many; but Quentin, apart from his admiration of her beauty, had a sincere regard for the girl, and though young in years, felt older by experience than those years warranted.
He thought she might have retired to her room—to rest, perhaps; yet he could not hear her breathing, for when he listened at the door, all was still within.
He knocked gently, but there was no response, so pushing it open, he entered. Isidora had told him that this was the apartment she usually occupied when residing with the Condesa de Maciera.
It was the perfection of a little bed-chamber; elaborate candelabra of cut crystal glittered like prisms on the white marble mantelpiece, the central ornament of which was an exquisite crucifix of ivory. The floor was of polished oak, and the walls were hung with some charming water-colour landscapes of the adjacent mountain scenery, in chaste and narrow frames: and then the little bed, half buried amid muslin curtains of the purest white, was much more like an English than a Spanish one.
Tent-form, the flowing drapery depended from a gilt coronet; the pillows, edged with the finest lace, were all untouched and unpressed, so Donna Isidora was not there.
Quentin started as he saw her figure suddenly reflected in a large cheval-glass. She was standing behind him, near the door of the apartment, regarding him with an expression of mournful interest in her eyes; her face pale as death, her hair flowing and dishevelled over her shoulders, her hands pressed upon her bosom, and seeming wondrously white when contrasted with the deep scarlet velvet of her corset; her flounces of black and scarlet, and the taper legs ending in the pretty Cordovan shoes, making altogether a very charming portrait.
"Senor," she said, in a low voice, "what were you seeking here?"
"I sought you, Isidora; I became seriously alarmed——"