Was it to appear on foot, on horseback, or between wheels?
Considering the character of the times—and that Red Hats were in the Alameda—the last was the most likely.
Notwithstanding this conjecture, I scrutinised every female pedestrian who came inside the enclosure—even those coifed by the cheapest reboso.
Though her sister had said otherwise, Mercedes might not always be free to go forth? She might have to take her recreation by stealth, and disguised?
My surmises soon came to an end; and, to my joy, proved erroneous. Dolores had been right. The cochero in black glaze hat and jaqueta of blue camlet cloth, driving a pair of frisones, could be no other than he who had once lost a doubloon by staying too late over his stable duties?
I took no further note of him. Thenceforth my eyes were occupied with a countenance seen through the windows of the carriage. It was a carretela of elegant construction—all glass in front—best plate, and clear as crystal.
The face inside was but improved by its interposition—toned to the softness of tinted wax.
It needed no scrutiny to identify it. There was no mistaking the countenance of Mercedes.
I had done this before; but that was under the uncertain glimmer of a street lamp.
I now saw it in the full light of day; and well did it bear the exposure. If possible it was more perfect than ever; and the jetty eyes, the carmine tinted checks, the lips—but I had no time to observe them in detail before the carriage came close up.