The mayor-domo moves away, and is soon lost to sight behind the crest of the hill.
The lady of the lazo is once more alone in the glade. She springs out of her saddle; dons serapé and sombrero; and is again the beau-ideal of a youthful hidalgo.
She remounts slowly, mechanically—as if her thoughts do not company the action. Languidly she lifts her limb over the horse. The pretty foot is for a second or two poised in the air.
Her ankle, escaping from the skirt of her enagua, displays a tournure to have crazed Praxiteles. As it descends on the opposite side of the horse, a cloud seems to overshadow the sun. Simon Stylites could scarce have closed his eyes on the spectacle.
But there is no spectator of this interesting episode; not even the wretched José; who, the moment after, comes skulking into the glade.
He is questioned, without circumlocution, upon the subject of the strayed letter.
“What have you done with it, sirrah?”
“Delivered it, my lady.”
“To whom?”