«You desire to contribute?» cried Don Pedro, with a certain friendly eagerness.
The Governor started as if he had been stung. His countenance became gravely blank. «Not I, by the Virgin! Not I. That is entirely a matter for the family of Queiroz.»
Don Pedro's smile perished. He sighed. «True! True! And yet … I've a notion you'll come to contribute something before all is ended.»
«Dismiss it,» laughed Don Jayme, «for that way lies disappointment.»
They rose from table soon thereafter and withdrew to the noontide rest the heat made necessary.
They did not come together again until supper, which was served in that same room, in the comparative cool of eventide and by the light of a score of candles in heavy silver branches brought from Spain.
The Governor's satisfaction at the signal honour of which he was the recipient appeared to have grown with contemplation of it. He was increasingly jovial and facetious, but not on this account did he spare Dona Hernanda his sneers. Rather did he make her the butt of coarse humours, inviting the two men to laugh with him at the shortcomings he indicated in her. Don Pedro, however, did not laugh. He remained preternaturally grave, indeed almost compassionate as he observed the tragic patience on that long–suffering wife's sweet face.
She looked so slight and frail in her stiff black satin gown, which rendered more dazzling by contrast the whiteness of her neck and shoulders, even as her lustrous, smoothly dressed black hair stressed the warm pallor of her gentle countenance. — A little statue in ebony and ivory she seemed to Don Pedro's fancy, and almost as lifeless until after supper he found himself alone with her in the deep jessamine–clad galleries that stood open to the cool night breezes blowing from the sea.
His Excellency had gone off to indite a letter of grateful acknowledgment to the King, and had taken the friar to assist him. He had commended his guest to the attention of his wife, whilst commiserating with him upon the necessity. She had led Don Pedro out into the scented purple tropic night, and stepping now beside him came at last to life, and addressed him in a breathless anxiety.
«What you told us to–day of Don Rodrigo de Queiroz, is it true? That he is a prisoner in the hands of Captain Blood, but unhurt and safe, awaiting ransom?»