“I refer to your portrait, which I accidentally found hanging in my apartment.”
“Ah! by the mirror?”
“Yes, by the mirror,” I answered sullenly.
“But, it is not mine, Señor Capitan.”
“Ha!—how? Not yours?”
“No; it is the portrait of my cousin, Maria de Merced. They say we were much alike.”
My heart expanded. My whole frame quivered under the influence of joyful emotions.
“And the gentleman?” I faltered out.
“Don Emilio? He was cousin’s lover—huyeron,” (they eloped).
As she repeated the last word she turned her head away, and I thought there was a sadness in her manner.