"The news from Spain is continually worse," replied Evaña. "Even the English appear to be unable to do anything to stop the progress of the French armies."
"He has had no letter for months," said Dolores.
"Not from Gordon," replied Evaña. "But Gordon can have little time for writing if he is with the army."
"If! you say if; is he not with the army?"
"He was on his way when Marcelino last heard from him."
"But that is long ago," said Dolores sadly, then turning from Evaña, she left him and went into the house.
Evaña followed her, entered the sala, but found it vacant, seated himself, thinking over what he had said to Dolores, and telling himself that he had not said one word of what he wished to say, but had aroused in her mind vague suspicions of evil which in no way advanced his own cause. He had wished to tell her plainly of his own love first, asking nothing in return, but hoping everything, then gradually breaking the truth to her to make her feel the need of the sympathy he yearned to offer.
As he thus tortured himself, saying to himself that he had let the chance go by, Dolores entered the room. Evaña rose to meet her but stopped as he saw the extraordinary pallor on her face, every shade of colour had vanished from it, even her lips were white and were firmly pressed together, while her eyes, looking straight into his, had a peering, anxious expression in them which caused his heart to cease for a moment its beating, too well he divined the reason of the change in her. She walked up to him and laid a hand upon his arm.
"I have been talking with Marcelino," she said, in slow, measured words. "What is this that you are hiding from me? He will tell me nothing."
"Hiding from you!" said Evaña; "Marcelino has no secrets from you."