Chapter Sixty One.
Angels on Earth.
The retreat of her rival—quick and unexpected—held Louise Poindexter, as if spell-bound. She had climbed into the saddle, and was seated, with spur ready to pierce the flanks of the fair Luna. But the stroke was suspended, and she remained in a state of indecision—bewildered by what she saw.
But the moment before she had looked into the jacalé—had seen her rival there, apparently at home; mistress both of the mansion and its owner.
What was she to think of that sudden desertion? Why that took of spiteful hatred? Why not the imperious confidence, that should spring from a knowledge of possession?
In place of giving displeasure, Isidora’s looks and actions had caused her a secret gratification. Instead of galloping after, or going in any direction, Louise Poindexter once more slipped down from her saddle, and re-entered the hut.
At sight of the pallid cheeks and wild rolling eyes, the young Creole for the moment forgot her wrongs.
“Mon dieu! Mon dieu!” she cried, gliding up to the catré. “Maurice—wounded—dying! Who has done this?”