It is a lovely evening, and warm. The atmosphere is elastic; such an atmosphere as you can find only on the high tables of the western world. It seems to act upon all animated nature, judging from its voices. There is joy in the songs of the birds, in the humming of the homeward bees. There is a softness, too, in those sounds that reach us from the farther forest; those sounds usually harsh; the voices of the wilder and fiercer creatures of the wilderness. All seem attuned to peace and love.
The song of the arriero is joyous; for many of these are below, packing for our departure.
I, too, am joyous. I have been so for days; but the light atmosphere around, and the bright prospect before me, have heightened the pulsations of my happiness.
Not so my companions on the azotea. Both seem sad.
Seguin is silent. I thought he had climbed up here to take a last look of the fair valley. Not so. He paces backward and forward with folded arms, his eyes fixed upon the cemented roof. They see no farther; they see not at all. The eye of his mind only is active, and that is looking inward. His air is abstracted; his brow is clouded; his thoughts are gloomy and painful. I know the cause of all this. She is still a stranger!
But Saint Vrain—the witty, the buoyant, the sparkling Saint Vrain—what misfortune has befallen him? What cloud is crossing the rose-coloured field of his horoscope? What reptile is gnawing at his heart, that not even the sparkling wine of El Paso can drown? Saint Vrain is speechless; Saint Vrain is sighing; Saint Vrain is sad! I half divine the cause. Saint Vrain is—
The tread of light feet upon the stone stairway—the rustling of female dresses!
They are ascending. They are Madame Seguin, Adèle, Zoe.
I look at the mother—at her features. They, too, are shaded by a melancholy expression. Why is not she happy? Why not joyous, having recovered her long-lost, much-loved child? Ah! she has not yet recovered her!
I turn my eyes on the daughter—the elder one—the queen. That is the strangest expression of all.