"You do, then, care for me, senor—a little?"
"Care for you, dearest Isidora——"
"Yet you drove me away from you!" she said, in a voice full of tender reproach.
"Do not say so," replied Quentin, taking her hot and trembling hands in his, and feeling very bewildered indeed.
"Your studied coldness repelled me. Ah, Dios mio! how calm, how collected you are, and I—! get me some water, friend—or some wine, rather; and this other—this other—she——"
"Who, senora?"
"Some wine, my friend. I am cold and flushed by turns. Some wine, I implore you!"
"Permit me to lead you from this," said Quentin, conducting her back to the boudoir, where he seated her on the sofa by his side, and endeavoured to soothe her; but the memory of the late scene, and the fire of jealousy that glowed in her heart, filled it with mingled anger and love.
While Quentin, all unconscious of what was about to ensue, was untwisting the wire of a champagne flask, she—while the light seemed to flash from her eyes, and her cheek flushed deeply—emptied the entire contents of her secret phial into a crystal goblet, and when the sparkling wine, with its pink tint and myriad globules, frothed and effervesced, as Quentin poured it in, the poison—for such it was—became at once concealed.
"Drink with me," said she, kissing the cup and presenting it to him; then, feverish and excited as he was, he took a deep draught; after which, with another of her strange smiles, the donna drank the rest, and, as she did so, the pallor of her little face, and the unnatural light in her eyes, attracted the attention of Quentin.