Not that she has any fear of his fealty, or that he will prove traitor to his troth now plighted. On the contrary, she can confide in him for that, and does—fully, trustingly.
Her fears are from a far different cause; the danger he is about to dare.
Conchita, in like manner, though in less degree, has her apprehensions. The great Colossus who has captured her heart, and been promised her hand, may never return to claim it. But, unacquainted with the risk he is going to run, the little mestiza has less to alarm her, and only contemplates her lover’s absence, with that sense of uncertainty common to all who live in a land where every day has its dangers.
Colonel Miranda is discomforted too. Never before since his arrival in the valley have his apprehensions been so keen. Hamersley’s words, directing suspicion to the peon, Manuel, have excited them. All the more from his having entertained something of this before. And now still more, that his messenger is three days overdue from the errand on which he has sent him.
At noon he and Don Prospero again ascend to the summit of the pass, and scan the table plain above—to observe nothing upon it, either westwardly or in any other direction. And all the afternoon has one or the other been standing near the door of the jacal, with a lorgnette levelled up the ravine through which the valley is entered from above.
Only as the shades of night close over them do they desist from this vigil, proving fruitless.
Added to the idea of danger, they have another reason for desiring the speedy return of the messenger. Certain little luxuries he is expected to bring—among the rest a skin or two of wine and a few boxes of cigars. For neither the colonel himself nor the ex-army surgeon are anchorites, however much they have of late been compelled to the habit. Above all, they need tobacco, their stock being out; the last ounce given to their late guests on leaving.
These are minor matters, but yet add to the cheerlessness of the time after the strangers have gone. Not less at night, when more than ever one feels a craving for the nicotian weed, to consume it in some way—pipe, cigar, or cigaritto.
As the circle of three assemble in their little sitting-room, after a frugal supper, tobacco is the Colonel’s chief care, and becomes the first topic of conversation.
“Carramba!” he explains, as if some new idea had entered his head, “I couldn’t have believed in a man suffering so much from such a trifling cause.”