Both seemed equally intent on departure—alike resolved on forsaking the spot, that had witnessed the desolation of their hearts.
The grey horse stood nearest—the mustang farther out. Isidora was the first to mount—the first to move off; but as she passed, her rival had also got into the saddle, and was holding the ready rein.
Glances were again interchanged—neither triumphant, but neither expressing forgiveness. That of the Creole was a strange mixture of sadness, anger, and surprise; while the last look of Isidora, that accompanied a spiteful “carajo!”—a fearful phrase from female lips—was such as the Ephesian goddess may have given to Athenaia, after the award of the apple.
Chapter Sixty.
A Fair Informer.
If things physical may be compared with things moral, no greater contrast could have been found, than the bright heavens beaming over the Alamo, and the black thoughts in the bosom of Isidora, as she hastened away from the jacalé. Her heart was a focus of fiery passions, revenge predominating over all.
In this there was a sort of demoniac pleasure, that hindered her from giving way to despair; otherwise she might have sunk under the weight of her woe.
With gloomy thoughts she rides under the shadow of the trees. They are not less gloomy, as she gazes up the gorge, and sees the blue sky smiling cheerfully above her. Its cheerfulness seems meant but to mock her!