Chapter Thirteen.
Confession of Fear.
After having delivered their speeches, so nearly alike in sound, yet so opposed in sense, the two girls stand for a short time silent, their faces turned toward the approaching horsemen. These are still more than a mile off, and to the ordinary eye only distinguishable as mounted men wearing cloaks—one of scarlet colour, the other sky-blue. But despite the distance, the others easily identify them, simultaneously, and in tone contemptuous, pronouncing their names.
“Yes,” says Carmen, now speaking in full assurance, with a lorgnette raised to her eyes—hitherto bent upon the British warship, “in all California there are no truer types of what I’ve called them. Do you think they’re coming on to the house, Iñez?”
“’Tis very likely; I should say, almost certain.”
“What can be bringing them?” mechanically queries Carmen, with an air of increased vexation.
“Their horses, aunt,” rejoins the niece, jestingly.
“Don’t jest, niña! It’s too serious.”
“What’s too serious?”