With ears keenly set, I listened for the rejoinder. Naturally, I expected it in the voice of a man; but not that man. Oh, heavens! it was the voice of Rafael Ijurra!
Chapter Forty Nine.
Threats.
Yes, the voice was Ijurra’s. I knew it well. While listening to it by the mesa, I had noted its tones sufficiently to remember them—round, sonorous, of true Spanish accent, and not inharmonious—though at that moment they grated harshly upon my ear.
An indescribable feeling came over me: it was not jealousy—I was too confident to be jealous—and yet, I shame to confess, I felt a sensation sadly akin to it. After those earnest oaths, those tears and frenzied kisses—so soon after! Oh, shame upon me!
Alas! the experienced heart no more enjoys the tranquil continuity of faith. Its belief is like a broken dream—an intermittence of light and shade. It was my misfortune, my error, perhaps my crime, to remember too many pairs of pretty perjured lips.
In a word, I was once more jealous, in spite of all that had passed—of sighs, and tears, and plighted vows—once more jealous of Ijurra!
But the moment before, his name was on her tongue, and spoken with scorn; in the same breath I was assured that he was no longer in the neighbourhood, that he was far away!