She listened. Though still distant, and but faintly heard, the voices could be distinguished as those of a man and woman.
What man? What woman? Another pang passed through her heart at these put questions.
She rode nearer; again halted; again listened.
The conversation was carried on in Spanish. There was no relief to her in this. Maurice Gerald would have talked in that tongue to Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos. The Creole was acquainted with it sufficiently to have understood what was said, had she been near enough to distinguish the words. The tone was animated on both sides, as if both speakers were in a passion. The listener was scarce displeased at this.
She rode nearer; once more pulled up; and once more sate listening.
The man’s voice was heard no longer. The woman’s sounded dear and firm, as if in menace!
There was an interval of silence, succeeded by a quick trampling of horses—another pause—another speech on the part of the woman, at first loud like a threat, and then subdued as in a soliloquy—then another interval of silence, again broken by the sound of hoofs, as if a single horse was galloping away from the ground.
Only this, and the scream of an eagle, that, startled by the angry tones, had swooped aloft, and was now soaring above the glade.
The listener knew of the opening—to her a hallowed spot. The voices had come out of it. She had made her last halt a little way from its edge. She had been restrained from advancing by a fear—the fear of finding out a bitter truth.
Her indecision ending, she spurred on into the glade.