It was the garden of Don Ignacio’s casa de campo; the ladies, his daughter and the Condesa. The lovely night, with balm in the air and a bright moon shining through the sky, had drawn them out, and they strolled through the grounds, keeping step, as it were, to that matchless melody, the song of the czenzontle. But note of no nightingale was in their thoughts, which were engrossed by graver themes.
“’Tis so strange our never hearing from them, and not a word of them. What do you make of it, Ysabel? Is it a bad sign?”
The question was asked by the Doña Luisa.
“That we haven’t heard from them is—in a way,” responded the Countess. “Yet that may be explained, too. The probability is, from the roads being all watched and guarded, as we know they are, they’d be cautious about communicating with us. If they’ve sent a messenger—which I hope they haven’t—he must have been intercepted and made prisoner. And then, the message; that might compromise us. But I know Ruperto will be careful. Not to have heard of them is all for the best—the very best. It should almost assure us that they’re still free, and safe somewhere. Had they been recaptured, we’d have known before this. All Mexico would be talking about it.”
“True,” assented Don Ignacio’s daughter, with a feeling of relief. “They cannot have been retaken. But I wonder where they are now.”
“So I myself, Luisita. I hope, however, not at that old monastery of which Ruperto gave me a description in one of his letters. It’s somewhere up in the mountains. But with the country all around so occupied by troops it would seem an unsafe place. I trust they’ve got over the Sierra, and down to Acapulco. If they have, we needn’t feel so very anxious about them.”
“Why not, Ysabel?”
“Why not? Ah! that’s a question you haven’t yet come to understand. But never mind the reason now. You’ll know it in good time; and when you do, I’ve no fear but you’ll be satisfied; your father too.”
Don Ignacio’s daughter was both puzzled and surprised at the strange words. But she knew the Countess had strange ways; and, though a bosom friend, was not without some secrets she kept to herself. This was one of them, no doubt, and she forebore pressing for an explanation.
What the Condesa hinted at was that disaffection in the south, the expected pronunciamento, which, if successful, would not only depose the Dictator, but of course also his Cabinet Ministers, her friend’s father among them. With some knowledge of coming events, she declined imparting this to the Doña Luisa through delicacy. Right was she, also, in her surmise as to the messenger; none had been intercepted, none having been sent out, just for the reason surmised by her.