It was the copper-colored visage of the sailor who had that morning brought her Paul's letter.
She knew not why, but she felt a thrill of pleasurable emotion vibrating through her breast as she beheld the rough face of this man. He knew, and was known to Paul. He could not then be other than a friend to her.
The watchful eye of Augustus Horton perceived her start of surprise as she beheld this man.
"One would think," he said, with something of a sneer, "that the lovely Donna Camillia Moraquitos had recognized an acquaintance in the pit of the theatre."
Camillia did not reply to this remark. It was growing late and Don Juan had not returned. His daughter was unable to repress a feeling of uneasiness at his lengthened absence. The Spaniard's affection for his only child was the one strong passion of his heart. No lover could have been more attentive than he to his daughter's slightest wish.
"Strange," murmured Camillia, as the after-piece drew to a close, "my father never fails to keep his word, yet it is now three hours since he left us."
The curtain fell, and the audience rose to leave the house.
"I will go and look for your carriage, Donna Camillia," said Augustus; "perhaps I may find your father waiting for you in the corridor without."
He left the box and returned in about three minutes to say that the carriage was at the door. Camillia's anxious eye detected something of agitation in his manner.
"My father," she said; "did you see him?"