Chapter Twenty Five.
A Mysterious Missive.
“O! Ysabel! To think of it! In the chain-gang—in the sewers! Madre de Dios!”
Thus passionately exclaimed Luisa Valverde, half addressing herself to the Condesa Almonté in her father’s house again, to which they had just returned from the ceremony of the procession. They were in the sala, seated upon the chair, into which they flung themselves, as if overcome with fatigue.
And weariness it was, but not of the body. Their souls were a-wearied through being unable to give utterance to the thoughts and passions that for hours had been convulsing them. Ever since passing the chain-gang they had been forced to keep up faces, seem as they felt not, smile when they could have wept. This the Condesa had counselled for reasons already hinted at; and now back home, with no one to see or hear, they were giving way to the wild tumult of emotion so long pent up.
For a time the Condesa made no rejoinder, herself as much affected as her friend. Both sat in despairing attitudes, heads drooped, and hands clasping them as though they ached; bosoms rising and falling in laboured undulation, the hearts within them painfully pulsing. All so unlike themselves, in such discordance with their great beauty, and the rich robes they wore. Looking at two such women, one could ill believe it possible for them to be otherwise than happy; yet, at that moment, both were miserable as misery itself.
“Ah, yes!” sighed the Countess, at length, and like as if awakening from some weird dream, its impress still upon her face. “To think of it; and fearful it is to think of. I understand things better now. My Ruperto is indeed in danger—more than I this morning believed. And your Florencio too. I could read his death in the eyes of Don Carlos Santander; and one told me the Tejanos are all to be shot!”
“O Ysabel, say not that! If they kill him, they may kill me! The man I love! Santa Guadalupe—Blessed Virgin! Save, oh, save him from such a fate!”