“Louise! tell me the truth! Speak to me, not as to your brother, but as to your own self. From what I have this night seen, more than from your own words, I know that you love this man. Has he taken advantage of your—your—unfortunate passion?”
“No—no—no. As I live he has not. He is too noble for that—even had I—Henry! he is innocent! If there be cause for regret, I alone am to blame. Why—oh! brother! why did you insult him?”
“Have I done so?”
“You have, Henry—rudely, grossly.”
“I shall go after, and apologise. If you speak truly, sister, I owe him that much. I shall go this instant. I liked him from the first—you know I did? I could not believe him capable of a cowardly act. I can’t now. Sister! come back into the house with me. And now, dearest Loo! you had better go to bed. As for me, I shall be off instanter to the hotel, where I may still hope to overtake him. I cannot rest till I have made reparation for my rudeness.”
So spoke the forgiving brother; and gently leading his sister by the hand, with thoughts of compassion, but not the slightest trace of anger, he hastily returned to the hacienda—intending to go after the young Irishman, and apologise for the use of words that, under the circumstances, might have been deemed excusable.
As the two disappeared within the doorway, a third figure, hitherto crouching among the shrubbery, was seen to rise erect, and follow them up the stone steps. This last was their cousin, Cassius Calhoun.
He, too, had thoughts of going after the mustanger.