Chapter Sixteen.
A Mutual Misapprehension.
Luisa Valverde and Ysabel Almonté were fast friends—so fondly intimate that scarcely a day passed without their seeing one another and exchanging confidences. They lived in the same street; the Condesa having a house of her own, though nominally owned by her grand-aunt and guardian. For, besides being beautiful and possessed of a title—one of the few still found in Mexico, relics of the old régime—Ysabel Almonté was immensely rich; had houses in the city, haciendas in the country, property everywhere. She had a will of her own as well, and spent her wealth according to her inclinations, which were all on the side of generosity, even to caprice. By nature a lighthearted, joyous creature, gay and merry, as one of the bright birds of her country, it was a rare thing to see sadness upon her face. And yet Luisa Valverde, looking down from the mirador, saw that now. There was a troubled expression upon it, excitement in her eyes, attitude, and gestures, while her bosom rose and fell in quick pulsations. True, she had run up the escalera—a stair of four flights—without pause or rest; and that might account for her laboured breathing. But not for the flush on her cheek, and the sparkle in her eyes. These came from a different cause, though the same one which had carried her up the long stairway without pausing to take breath.
She had not enough now left to declare it; but stood panting and speechless.
“Madre de Dios!” exclaimed her friend in an accent of alarm. “What is it, Ysabel?”
“Madre de Dios! I say too,” gasped the Condesa. “Oh, Luisita! what do you think?”
“What?”
“They’ve taken him—they have him in prison!”