“He lives then—still lives! Blessed be the Virgin!”
Saying which Luisa Valverde crossed her arms over her breast, and with eyes raised devotionally towards heaven, seemed to offer up a mute, but fervent thanksgiving.
“Still lives!” echoed the Condesa, with a look of mingled surprise and perplexity.
“Of course he does; surely you did not think he was dead!”
“Indeed I knew not what to think—so long since I saw or heard of him. Oh, I’m so glad he’s here, even though in a prison; for while there’s life there’s hope.”
By this the Condesa had recovered breath, though not composure of countenance. Its expression alone was changed from the look of trouble to one of blank astonishment. What could her friend mean? Why glad of his being in a prison? For all the while she was thinking of a him.
“Hope!” she ejaculated again as an echo, then remaining silent, and looking dazed-like.
“Yes, Ysabel; I had almost despaired of him. But are you sure they have him here in prison? I was in fear that he had been killed in battle, or died upon the march, somewhere in those great prairies of Texas—”
“Carramba!” interrupted the young Countess, who, free of speech, was accustomed to interlarding it with her country forms of exclamation. “What’s all this about prairies and Texas? So far as I know, Ruperto was never there in his life.”
“Ruperto!” echoed the other, the joy which had so suddenly lit up her features as suddenly returning to shadow. “I thought you were speaking of Florencio.”