Could the lady have ridden out to meet him, or Maurice gone in?
Were they at that moment in the woods, or within the walls of the house? If the former, was Don Silvio aware of it? If the latter, was he at home—an approving party to the assignation?
With such questions was the Creole afflicting herself, when the neigh of a horse broke abruptly on her ear, followed by the chinking of a shod hoof against the stones of the causeway. She looked below: for she had halted upon the crest, a steep acclivity. The mustanger was ascending it—riding directly towards her. She might have seen him sooner, had she not been occupied with the more distant view.
He was alone, as he had ridden past Casa del Corvo. There was nothing to show that he had recently been in company—much less in the company of an inamorata.
It was too late for Louise to shun him. The spotted mustang had replied to the salutation of an old acquaintance. Its rider was constrained to keep her ground, till the mustanger came up.
“Good day, Miss Poindexter?” said he—for upon the prairies it is not etiquette for the lady to speak first. “Alone?”
“Alone, sir. And why not?”
“’Tis a solitary ride among the chapparals. But true: I think I’ve heard you say you prefer that sort of thing?”
“You appear to like it yourself, Mr Gerald. To you, however, it is not so solitary, I presume?”
“In faith I do like it; and just for that very reason. I have the misfortune to live at a tavern, or ‘hotel,’ as mine host is pleased to call it; and one gets so tired of the noises—especially an invalid, as I have the bad luck to be—that a ride along this quiet road is something akin to luxury. The cool shade of these acacias—which the Mexicans have vulgarised by the name of mezquites—with the breeze that keeps constantly circulating through their fan-like foliage, would invigorate the feeblest of frames. Don’t you think so, Miss Poindexter?”