Despite her natural courage, and an effort to appear calm, she trembles, as also her voice. There is an expression on the face of the man that bodes sinister risings—some terrible disclosure.
The suspense is too painful to be borne; and in a tone more firm and defiant she demands the promised communication.
“Dona Adela Miranda,” he rejoins, speaking in a grave, measured voice, like a doctor delivering a prognosis of death, “it has been my duty to make your brother a prisoner—a painful one, as I have said. But, alas! the part I’ve already performed is nothing compared with that now required of me. You say you are prepared for a shock. What I’m going to say will cause you one.”
She no longer attempts to conceal alarm. It is now discernible in her large, wondering eyes.
“Say it!”
The words drop mechanically from her lips, drawn forth by the intensity of her apprehension.
“You are soon to be without a brother!”
“What mean you, señor?”
“Don Valerian dies within the hour.”
“You are jesting, sir. My brother has not been sick? He is not wounded? Why should he die?”