I saluted the ladies with as much courtesy as I could assume. I could not help the coldness of my manner, and I could perceive that with her it did not pass unobserved.
We sat down to the breakfast-table; but my heart was full of bitterness, and I scarcely touched the delicate viands that were placed before me.
“You do not eat, Captain. I hope you are well?” said Don Cosmé, observing my strange and somewhat rude demeanour.
“Thank, you, Señor, I never enjoyed better health.”
I studiously avoided looking towards her, paying slight attentions to her sister. This is the game of piques. Once or twice I ventured a side-glance. Her eyes were bent upon me with a strange, inquiring look.
They are swimming in tears, and soft, and forgiving. They are swollen. She has been weeping. That is not strange. Her brother’s danger is, no doubt, the cause of her sorrow.
Yet, is there not reproach in her looks? Reproach! How ill does my conduct of last night correspond with this affected coldness—this rudeness! Can she, too, be suffering?
I arose from the table, and, walking forth, ordered Lincoln to prepare the men for marching.
I strolled down among the orange-trees. Clayley followed soon after, accompanied by both the girls. Don Cosmé remained at the house to superintend the saddling of his mule, while Dona Joaquina was packing the necessary articles into his portmanteau.
Following some silent instinct, we—Guadalupe and I—came together. Clayley and his mistress had strayed away, leaving us alone. I had not yet spoken to her. I felt a strange impulse—a desire to know the worst. I felt as one looking over a fearful precipice.