“Zoe!”
“Enrique, Enrique! say you will not leave me!”
“Never! Zoe! I swear it; never, never!” I fancied at this moment I heard the stroke of an oar; but the wild tumult of my feelings prevented me from rising to look over the bank. I was raising my head when an object, appearing above the bank, caught my eye. It was a black sombrero with its golden band. I knew the wearer at a glance: Seguin! In a moment, he was beside us.
“Papa!” exclaimed Zoe, rising up and reaching forward to embrace him. The father put her to one side, at the same time tightly grasping her hand in his. For a moment he remained silent, bending his eyes upon me with an expression I cannot depict. There was in it a mixture of reproach, sorrow, and indignation. I had risen to confront him, but I quailed under that singular glance, and stood abashed and silent.
“And this is the way you have thanked me for saving your life? A brave return, good sir; what think you?”
I made no reply.
“Sir!” continued he, in a voice trembling with emotion, “you have deeply wronged me.”
“I know it not; I have not wronged you.”
“What call you this? Trifling with my child!”
“Trifling!” I exclaimed, roused to boldness by the accusation.