I was angry at the man who had made me feel so;—but mad—absolutely mad—with the woman!
What could she have meant in leading me such a measure? What profit did she expect by practising upon me such a damnable delusion?
“En la Alameda—a seis Horas!”
I was there, true to the time,—and she, too. Six o’clock could be heard striking from a score of church towers—every stroke as if the hammer were driving a nail into my heart!
For some seconds I listened to the tolling—tolling—tolling. Were they funeral bells?
Oh! what a woman—in beauty an angel—in behaviour a devil!
I had no longer a doubt that such was a true description of Mercedes Villa-Señor.
To excuse my thus quickly coming to conclusions, you should know something of Mexican society—its highest and best.
But it is not for me to expose it. My souvenirs are too sweet to permit of my turning traitor.
That was one of the most bitter—although it was also one of the most transient.