Maria Clara, the subject of all the gossip, was the center of a group of women. She had greeted and received them ceremoniously, but did not throw off her air of sadness.
“Psh!” said one of the girls. “A little stuck-up!”
“A cute little thing,” replied another, “but he might have selected some one of a more intelligent appearance.”
“It’s the money; he’s a good-looking fellow and sells himself for a good price.”
In another part of the room they were talking like this:
“Marry, when her former betrothed is about to be hanged!”
“I call that prudence; to have one on hand as a substitute.”
Possibly the young maiden heard these remarks as she sat in a chair near by, arranging a tray of flowers, for her hand was seen to tremble, she turned pale and bit her lips a number of times.
The conversation among the men was in a loud tone. Naturally, they were conversant with the recent happenings. All were talking, even Don Tiburcio, with the exception of Father Sibyla, who maintained a disdainful silence.
“I have heard that Your Reverence leaves the town, Father Salví?” asked the newly made lieutenant, now made more amiable by the star on his sleeve.