"What, sefior?" she asked, vaguely. She had
not listened to the words of her protesting admirer.
A sneer hent his mouth. " That you have put a
price upon yourself ? That the man who ardently
wishes to be your husband, who has even won your
love, must first hang you with pearls like—" He
stopped suddenly, the blood burning his dark face,
his eyes opening with an expression of horrified
hope. "Tell me! Tell me!" he exclaimed. "Is
this true ? "
For the first time since she had spoken with him
Ysabel was herself. She crossed her arms and
tapped her elbows with her pointed fingers.
"Yes," she said, "it is true." She raised her eyes
to his and regarded him steadily. They looked like
green pools frozen in a marble wall.
The harp, the flute, the guitar, combined again,
and once more he swung her from a furious circle.
But he was safe; General Castro had joined it. He
waltzed her down the long room, through one ad-
joining, then into another, and, indifferent to the
iron conventions of his race, closed the door behind
them. They were in the sleeping-room of Dona
Modeste. The bed with its rich satin coverlet, the
bare floor, the simple furniture, were in semi-dark-
ness ; only on the altar in the corner were candles
burning. Above it hung paintings of saints, finely
executed by Mexican hands; an ebony cross spread
its black arms against the white wall; the candles
flared to a golden Christ. He caught her hands and
dragged her over to the altar.