“Go, Arrochkoa, quickly, race, let us go!”
And in two seconds, in the rapid descent, he lost sight of the one whose face at last was covered with tears.
Now they were going away from one another, Franchita and her son. In different directions, they were walking on that Etchezar road,—in the splendor of the setting sun, in a region of pink heather and of yellow fern. She was going up slowly toward her home, meeting isolated groups of farmers, flocks led through the golden evening by little shepherds in Basque caps. And he was going down quickly, through valleys soon darkened, toward the lowland where the railway train passes—
CHAPTER XXVII.
At twilight, Franchita was returning from escorting her son and was trying to regain her habitual face, her air of haughty indifference, to pass through the village.
But, when she arrived in front of the Detcharry house, she saw Dolores who, instead of going in, as she intended, turned round and stood at the door to see her pass. Something new, some sudden revelation must have impelled her to take this attitude of aggressive defiance, this expression of provoking irony,—and Franchita then stopped, she also, while this phrase, almost involuntary, came through her set teeth:
“What is the matter with that woman? Why does she look at me so—”
“He will not come to-night, the lover, will he?” responded the enemy.
“Then you knew that he came here to see your daughter?”