“I shall tell the pleasant ones first. We shall soon have an opportunity of leaving this lonely place.”
“Do you call that good news? I rather think it the reverse. What will the bad be?”
“But, dear Adela, our life here, away from all society, has been a harsh experience—to you a terrible one.”
“In that, hermano mio, you’re mistaken. You know I don’t care a straw for what the world calls society—never did. I prefer being free from its stupid restraints and silly conventionalities. Give me Nature for my companion—ay, in her wildest scenes and most surly moods.”
“Surely you’ve had both to a surfeit.”
“Nothing of the kind; I’m not tired of Nature yet. I have never been happier than in this wilderness home. How different from my convent school—my prison, I should rather call it! Oh, it is charming! and if I were to have my way, it should never come to an end. But why do you talk of leaving this place? Do you suppose the troubles are over, and we can return safely? I don’t wish to go there, brother. After what has happened, I hate New Mexico, and would prefer staying in the Llano Estacado.”
“I have no thought of going back to New Mexico.”
“Where, then, brother?”
“In the very opposite direction—to the United States. Don Francisco advises me to do so; and I have yielded to his counsel.”
Adela seems less disposed to offer opposition. She no longer protests against the change of residence.