Part 62 (1/2)

(beautiful fifteen), Perhaps fairer. Do not suppose that the dark lining on her lip damages the feminine expression of her face. Rather does it add to its attractiveness. Accustomed to the glowing complexion of the Saxon blonde, you may at first sight deem it a deformity. Do not so p.r.o.nounce, till you have looked again. A second glance, and--my word for it--you will modify your opinion. A third will do away with your indifference; a fourth change it to admiration!

Continue the scrutiny, and it will end in your becoming convinced: that a woman wearing a moustache--young, beautiful, and brunette--is one of the grandest sights which a beneficent Nature offers to the eye of man.

It is presented in the person of Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos. If there is anything unfeminine in her face, it is not this; though it may strengthen a wild, almost fierce, expression, at times discernible, when her white teeth gleam conspicuously under the sable shadow of the ”bigot.i.te.”

Even then is she beautiful; but, like that of the female jaguar, 'tis a beauty that inspires fear rather than affection.

At all times it is a countenance that bespeaks for its owner the possession of mental attributes not ordinarily bestowed upon her s.e.x.

Firmness, determination, courage--carried to the extreme of reckless daring--are all legible in its lines. In those cunningly-carved features, slight, sweet, and delicate, there is no sign of fainting or fear. The crimson that has struggled through the brown skin of her cheeks would scarce forsake them in the teeth of the deadliest danger.

She is riding alone, through the timbered bottom of the Leona. There is a house not far off; but she is leaving it behind her. It is the hacienda of her uncle, Don Silvio Martinez, from the portals of which she has late issued forth.

She sits in her saddle as firmly as the skin that covers it. It is a spirited horse, and has the habit of showing it by his prancing paces.

But you have no fear for the rider: you are satisfied of her power to control him.

A light lazo, suited to her strength, is suspended from the saddle-bow.

Its careful coiling shows that it is never neglected. This almost a.s.sures you, that she understands how to use it. She does--can throw it, with the skill of a mustanger.

The accomplishment is one of her conceits; a part of the idiosyncrasy already acknowledged.

She is riding along a road--not the public one that follows the direction of the river. It is a private way leading from the hacienda of her uncle, running into the former near the summit of a hill--the hill itself being only the bluff that abuts upon the bottom lands of the Leona.

She ascends the sloping path--steep enough to try the breathing of her steed. She reaches the crest of the ridge, along which trends the road belonging to everybody.

She reins up; though not to give her horse an opportunity of resting.

She has halted, because of having reached the point where her excursion is to terminate.

There is an opening on one side of the road, of circular shape, and having a superficies of some two or three acres. It is gra.s.s-covered and treeless--a prairie in _petto_. It is surrounded by the chapparal forest--very different from the bottom timber out of which she has just emerged. On all sides is the enclosing thicket of spinous plants, broken only by the embouchures of three paths, their triple openings scarce perceptible from the middle of the glade.

Near its centre she has pulled up, patting her horse upon the neck to keep him quiet. It is not much needed. The scaling of the ”cuesta” has done that for him. He has no inclination either to go on, or tramp impatiently in his place.

”I am before the hour of appointment,” mutters she, drawing a gold watch from under her serape, ”if, indeed, I should expect him at all. He may not come? G.o.d grant that he be able!

”I am trembling! Or is it the breathing of the horse? _Valga me Dios_, no! 'Tis my own poor nerves!

”I never felt so before! Is it fear? I suppose it is.

”'Tis strange though--to fear the man I love--the only one I over have loved: for it could not have been love I had for Don Miguel. A girl's fancy. Fortunate for me to have got cured of it! Fortunate my discovering him to be a coward. That disenchanted me--quite dispelled the romantic dream in which he was the foremost figure. Thank my good stars, for the disenchantment; for now I hate him, now that I hear he has grown--_Santissima_! can it be true that he has become--a--a _salteador_?

”And yet I should have no fear of meeting him--not even in this lone spot!

”_Ay de mi_! Fearing the man I love, whom I believe to be of kind, n.o.ble nature--and having no dread of him I hate, and know to be cruel and remorseless! 'Tis strange--incomprehensible!

”No--there is nothing strange in it. I tremble not from any thought of danger--only the danger of not being beloved. That is why I now s.h.i.+ver in my saddle--why I have not had one night of tranquil sleep since my deliverance from those drunken savages.

”I have never told _him_ of this; nor do I know how he may receive the confession. It must, and shall be made. I can endure the uncertainty no longer. In preference I choose despair--death, if my hopes deceive me!

”Ha! There is a hoof stroke! A horse comes down the road! It is his?

Yes. I see glancing through the trees the bright hues of our national costume. He delights to wear it. No wonder; it so becomes him!