Atherton, Gertrude Franklin Horn, 1857-1948 / 2008-07-31 00:00:00


"He would have come back to me before this."
"True."
"He was so strong and so different, mamita."
"I never forget his eyes. Very bold eyes."
"They could be soft, macheppa."
"True. It is time thou dressed for the ball at the Custom-house,
ninita."
Ysabel leaned forward, her lips parting. A man was coming up the hill.
He was gaunt; he was burnt almost black. Something bulged beneath his
serape.
Dona Juana found herself suddenly in the middle of the room. Ysabel
darted through the only door, locking it behind her. The indignant duena
also recognized the man, and her position. She trotted to the door and
thumped angrily on the panel; sympathetic she was, but she never could
so far forget herself as to permit a young girl to talk with a man
unattended.
"Thou shalt not go to the ball to-night," she cried shrilly. "Thou shalt
be locked in the dark room. Thou shalt be sent to the rancho. Open!
open! thou wicked one. Madre de Dios! I will beat thee with my own
hands."
But she was a prisoner, and Ysabel paid no attention to her threats.
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