“I have the proofs of what I repeat,” continued Ijurra; “and even should the United States triumph, its laws cannot make you legitimate. You are not the heiress of the hacienda de Vargas!”
As yet not a word from Isolina. She sat silent and motionless, but I could tell by the rising and falling of her shoulders that a terrible storm was gathering in her bosom.
The fiend continued:—
“Now, madame, you may know how disinterested it was of me to offer you marriage: nay, more, I never loved you; if I told you so, it was a lie—”
He never lied in his life as he was doing at that moment. His face bespoke the falsehood of his words. It was the utterance of purest spleen. I read in his look the unmistakable expression of jealousy. Coarse as the passion may have been, he loved her—oh! how could it have been otherwise?
“Love you, indeed! Ha, ha, ha! love you—the daughter of a poor Indian—a margarita!”
The climax had come. The heaving bosom could bear silence no longer; the insult was unendurable.
“Base wretch!” cried she, in a voice of compressed agony, “stand aside from my path!”
“Not yet,” answered Ijurra, grasping the bridle more firmly. “I have something further to communicate—”
“Villain! release the rein!”