“You are very beautiful, Murella.”
“Machacha!” shrieked the duenna from the entrance to the ramada, “what are you saying?” and then followed invective in every key, and words of scorn in every cadence, until, pale with anger and chagrin, the girl sprang from her hammock and ran swiftly away.
For a long time our hero lay lost in speculation. After all, it was only a misunderstanding, and not liable to be remembered overnight. In any event, he had not compromised the maiden, and finally he concluded—as was indeed the truth—that the cunning señorita was all the while cognizant of the situation, and not at all deceived, and so he dismissed the subject from his mind.
And what was the first move of the panic-stricken maiden? Speeding swiftly over the ground, she sank in the shadow of the ocotilla hedge inclosure, which formed the corral, and drew cautiously from her pocket the letter committed to her care by Morning. Reopening it, for the envelope, sealed only with mucilage, had been carefully broken, she drew forth a picture of the Baroness Von Eulaw, older by many years than the name she now bore, and much thumbed and worn beside.
This unconscious incendiary Murella first regarded disdainfully for an instant, and then deliberately spat upon it. She then proceeded to possess herself of the contents of the letter, which was brief, and, regarded as a wholesome irritant for a recent wound, rather ineffectual. She spelled it out laboriously, and it read as follows:—
To the Baroness Von Eulaw, Berlin.
You may have forgotten that several years ago, and through wholly legitimate means, let me say in self-defense, a specimen of art, of inestimable value to me, came into my possession. I have hitherto deemed it no breach of honor to retain it. Finding myself very ill, however, and warned by my physicians of the probable fatal termination of my malady, I esteem it prudent and not less just to return to you the last token of a mutual recognition which I have the faith to believe is among the things that are undying.
It is, perhaps, unwillingness to pass the veil which enshrouds the great mystery, without first vindicating myself in your esteem, that impels me to tell you that which I have heretofore thought to keep secret—that your letter, written in February, 1883, was accidentally mislaid in an old desk, and was never opened or perused by me until the day after you became the Baroness Von Eulaw.
Always yours sincerely,
David Morning.