Downstairs amid the oriental luxuriousness of the cosy corner sat Tia Teresa, waiting in the dark to intercept the visitor of whose coming she had been apprized by a secret messenger. And at last Ricardo Robles came, with the noiseless footfall that was characteristic of the man and imparted to him an air of mystery. He was standing by the old duenna’s side before she had realized his presence.
“I wanted a few words with you first of all, Tia Teresa,” he murmured, as she grasped his hand in both her own and affectionately kissed it. “Something has happened.”
“I know what has happened, Don Manuel,” she whispered. “The young man deserved his fate, for I am sure you saw what occurred in the rose garden during the afternoon. For one of his breed to have dared even to touch my little girl!” She hissed the words venomously, then added in calmer tone: “So all is well. He brought down his doom upon his own head, and vengeance for Rosetta begins.”
Robles pressed her hand as he disengaged his own from her almost fiercely caressing touch.
“I nursed you both,” continued the duenna in a low impassioned voice. “Your people were my people, you children were my very life, and your revenge has come to be my own. So I rejoice that the young ruffian died.”
He had seated himself by her side on the divan. “We shall say no more then about that,” he responded. “In some ways I am sorry over the day’s work. At times I find it difficult to reconcile my firmness with my softness.”
“But you cannot forget that you are no longer the owner of your father’s lands and flocks, and are virtually childless besides.” She breathed the words with intense repressed fury, intensified as she added: “And all through the accursed gringo who wrecked our happy lives—Rosetta’s, yours, your beloved parents’ as well. While that abominable wretch lives, the vendetta can never end.”
For a moment Robles remained silent. Then he spoke resolutely:
“I know it, Tia Teresa. Today my work only begins. Rest assured that it will be carried to the bitter finish. For this I have waited all through those long years. But I wanted to tell you of another matter—to warn you of a very serious complication. Dick Willoughby has been arrested for the slaying of Marshall Thurston.” The duenna sat bolt upright in shocked surprise. “Oh, my! What will this mean?” she murmured.
“Terrible grief for my little girl—possibly much suffering for him until I choose to take the responsibility upon myself.”