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"
One evening, as he exhaled thus the plaint of his wounded soul, she
condescended to say that, if she were a man, she would consider no life
worthless which held the possibility of revenge.
She seemed to be speaking to herself. Her voice was low. He drank in the
gentle, as if dreamy sound with a consciousness of peculiar delight of
something warming his breast like a draught of generous wine.
"True, Senorita," he said, raising his face up to hers slowly: "there is
Estaban, who must be shown that I am not dead after all."
The mutterings of the mad father had ceased long before; the sighing
mother had withdrawn somewhere into one of the empty rooms. All was
still within as well as without, in the moonlight bright as day on the
wild orchard full of inky shadows. Gaspar Ruiz saw the dark eyes of Dona
Erminia look down at him.
"Ah! The sergeant," she muttered, disdainfully.
"Why! He has wounded me with his sword," he protested, bewildered by the
contempt that seemed to shine livid on her pale face.
She crushed him with her glance.


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