“I should never have the courage to commit such a fearful act,” cried the officer, flinging the scissors upon the floor, and crushing them under his heel.
“It must be done, Rafael; it must be done. God will punish me else. Perhaps He may punish me by taking away from me your love.”
“Well, I shall do it,” rejoined the reluctant lover, “but not yet awhile. On my return, Gertrudis. For my sake, leave it over till then.”
The passionate appeal of Don Rafael at length obtained a respite, until the time fixed for his return; which was to be on the morrow—as soon as he should have assured himself of the safety of his father.
While their next meeting was being arranged between the two lovers, Gertrudis suddenly started up, like a young doe that springs from its perfumed lair at the first sound of the hunter’s horn.
“Surely I heard a noise?” said she; “a strange noise. What could it mean?”
Don Rafael, whose senses had been entirely absorbed by his new-found happiness, sprang also to his feet, and stood listening.
They had scarce listened for a dozen seconds, when a well-known sound fell upon the ears of both—though well-known, a sound significant and ominous. It was the report of a gun, quickly followed by several others as if fired in fusillade.
At the same moment, Don Mariano and his daughter Marianita rushed into the room. They, too, had heard the reports, which were in the direction of the hills, and were proceeding to the rear of the hacienda to inquire the cause.
All remained listening and alarmed—Don Rafael, more than even the young girls: for too much happiness has the effect of weakening the heart. The most profound silence reigned throughout the building; for the firing, heard by the servants of the hacienda, had inspired one and all of them with the same mute alarm; just as pigeons asleep upon the tree aroused by the first scream of the kite, remain for some moments terrified and motionless in their places.