Neither deigned to ask explanation of the other; neither needed it.
There are occasions when speech is superfluous, and both intuitively felt that this was one.
It was a mutual encounter of fell passions; that found expression only in the flashing of eyes, and the scornful curling of lips.
Only for an instant was the attitude kept up. In fact, the whole scene, inside, scarce occupied a score of seconds.
It ended by Louise Poindexter turning round upon the doorstep, and gliding off to regain her saddle.
The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!
Isidora too came out, almost treading upon the skirt of the other’s dress.
The same thought was in her heart—perhaps more emphatically felt. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!
Both seemed equally intent on departure—alike resolved on forsaking the spot, that had witnessed the desolation of their hearts.
The grey horse stood nearest—the mustang farther out.
Isidora was the first to mount—the first to move off; but as she passed, her rival had also got into the saddle, and was holding the ready rein.
Glances were again interchanged—neither triumphant, but neither expressing forgiveness.
That of the Creole was a strange mixture of sadness, anger, and surprise; while the last look of Isidora, that accompanied a spiteful “carajo!”—a fearful phrase from female lips—was such as the Ephesian goddess may have given to Athenaia, after the award of the apple.
Chapter Sixty. A Fair Informer.
If things physical may be compared with things moral, no greater contrast could have been found, than the bright heavens beaming over the Alamo, and the black thoughts in the bosom of Isidora, as she hastened away from the jacale.
Her heart was a focus of fiery passions, revenge predominating over all.
In this there was a sort of demoniac pleasure, that hindered her from giving way to despair; otherwise she might have sunk under the weight of her woe.
With gloomy thoughts she rides under the shadow of the trees.
They are not less gloomy, as she gazes up the gorge, and sees the blue sky smiling cheerfully above her. Its cheerfulness seems meant but to mock her!
She pauses before making the ascent.
She has reined up under the umbrageous cypress—fit canopy for a sorrowing heart. Its sombre shade appears more desirable than the sunlight above.
It is not this that has caused her to pull up.
There is a thought in her soul darker than the shadow of the cypress.
It is evinced by her clouded brow; by her black eyebrows contracted over her black flashing eyes; above all, by an expression of fierceness in the contrast of her white teeth gleaming under the moustached lip. All that is good of woman, except beauty, seems to have forsaken—all that is bad, except ugliness, to have taken possession of her! She has paused at the prompting of a demon—with an infernal purpose half formed in her mind.
Her muttered speeches proclaim it. “I should have killed her upon the spot! Shall I go back, and dare her to deadly strife?”
“If I killed her, what would it avail?
It could not win me back his heart—lost, lost, without hope!
Yes; those words were from the secret depths of his soul; where her image alone has found an abiding place!
Oh! there is no hope for me!
“’Tis he who should die; he who has caused my ruin.
If I kill him? Ah, then; what would life be to me?
Prom that hour an endless anguish!
“Oh! it is anguish now!
I cannot endure it.
I can think of no solace—if not in revenge.
Not only she, he also—both must die!
“But not yet—not till he know, by whose hand it is done. Oh! he shall feel his punishment, and know whence it comes.
Mother of God, strengthen me to take vengeance!”
She lances the flank of her horse, and spurs him, up the slope of the ravine.
On reaching the upper plain, she does not stop—even for the animal to breathe itself—but goes on at a reckless gait, and in a direction that appears undetermined.
Neither hand nor voice are exerted in the guidance of her steed—only the spur to urge him on.
Left to himself, he returns in the track by which he came.
It leads to the Leona.
Is it the way he is wanted to go?
His rider seems neither to know nor care.
She sits in the saddle, as though she were part of it; with head bent down, in the attitude of one absorbed in a profound reverie, unconscious of outward things—even of the rude pace at which she is riding!
She does not observe that black cohort close by; until warned of its proximity by the snorting of her steed, that suddenly comes to a stand.
She sees a caballada out upon the open prairie!
Indians?
No. White men—less by their colour, than the caparison of their horses, and their style of equitation. Their beards, too, show it; but not their skins, discoloured by the “stoor” of the parched plain.