The Tiger Hunter. Майн Рид
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as I am. My very impatience makes me despair of seeing him. Ah! Gertrudis, you have never experienced the emotion of love.”
“Were I in your place I should feel more chagrin than impatience.”
“Chagrin, oh! no; if Don Fernando don’t choose to come this evening, he will lose the pleasure of seeing me in this beautiful white dress which he admires so much, and with these purple pomegranates in my hair, which I put in just to please him. For my part I prefer the white blossoms of the orange; but they say that a woman when married must make some sacrifices, and I may as well accustom myself to them.”
In saying these words the young girl snapped her fingers together till they cracked like castanets; while her countenance, instead of expressing any very painful emotion, exhibited an air of perfect contentment.
Gertrudis made no answer, except by a sigh, half-suppressed. She sat motionless, with the exception of her foot, which kept balancing upward and downward the little slipper of blue satin, while the fresh breeze of the evening blowing in from the window, caused a gentle tremulous movement among the tresses of her hair.
“It’s very tiresome—this country life,” continued Marianita; “it’s true one can pass the day by combing out one’s hair, and taking a siesta; but in the evening, to have nothing else to do but walk in the garden and listen to the sighing breeze, instead of singing and dancing in a tertulia! Oh, it is wearisome—very, very wearisome, I declare. We are here, like the captive princesses in an Eastern romance, which I commenced reading last year, but which I have not yet finished. Santa Virgen! I see a cloud of dust upon the horizon at last—a horseman! Que clicha! (what happiness!)”
“A horseman!—what is the colour of his steed?” inquired Gertrudis, suddenly aroused.
“Ha—ha! As I live his horse is a mule—what a pity it was not some knight-errant! but I have heard that these fine gentry no longer exist.”
Gertrudis again sighed.
“Ah! I can distinguish him now,” continued Marianita. “It is a priest who rides the mule. Well, a priest is better than nobody—especially if he can play as well on the mandolin as the last one that travelled this way, and stayed two days with us. He! He is coming on a gallop—that’s not a bad sign. But no! he has a very grave, demure look. Ah! he sees me; he is waving a salute. Well, I must go down and kiss his hand, I suppose.”
Saying these words, the young Creole—whose education taught her that it was her duty to kiss the hand of every priest who came to the hacienda—pursed up her pretty rose-coloured lips in a saucy mocking fashion.
“Come, Gertrudis!” continued she; “come along with me. He is just by the entrance gate!”
“Do you see no one upon the plain?” inquired Gertrudis, not appearing to trouble herself about the arrival of the priest. “No other horseman—Don Fernando, for instance?”
“Ah, yes!” answered Marianita, once more looking from the window. “Don Fernando transformed into a mule-driver, who is forcing his recua into a gallop, as if he wished the loaded animals to run a race with one another! Why, the muleteer is making for the hacienda, as well as the priest, and galloping like him, too! What on earth can be the matter with the people? One would think that they had taken leave of their senses!”
The clanging of bolts and creaking hinges announced the opening of the great gate; and this, followed by a confused clatter of hoof-strokes, told that the mule-driver with his train of animals was also about to receive the hospitality of the hacienda. This circumstance, contrary to all usage, somewhat surprised the young girls, who were wondering why the house was being thus turned into an hostelry. They were further surprised at hearing an unusual stir in the courtyard—the servants of the establishment talking in a clamorous medley of voices, and footsteps falling heavily on the pavements and stone stairs leading up to the azotéa of the building.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Marianita, making the sign of the cross; “is the hacienda going to be besieged, I wonder? Mercy on us! I hope the insurgent brigands may not be coming to attack us!”
“Shame, sister!” said Gertrudis, in a tone of calm reproach. “Why do you call them brigands?—these men who are fighting for their liberties, and who are led by venerable priests?”
“Why do I call them brigands?” brusquely responded Marianita. “Because they hate the Spaniards, whose pure blood runs in our veins; and because,” continued she—the impetuous Creole blood mounting to her cheek—“because I love a Spaniard!”
“Ah!” replied Gertrudis, in the same reproachful tone; “you perhaps only fancy you love him? In my opinion, sister, true love presents certain symptoms which I don’t perceive in you.”
“And what matters if I do not love him, so long as he loves me? Am I not soon to belong to him? And why, then, should I think different to what he does? No, no!” added the young girl, with that air of passionate devotion which the women of her country and race lavish without limits on those whom they love.
At this moment, the sudden and unexpected strokes of the alarm-bell breaking upon their ears interrupted the dialogue between the two sisters, putting an end to a conversation which promised to engender ill-feeling between them—just as the same topic had already caused dissension in more than one family circle, breaking the nearest and dearest ties of friendship and kindred.
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