He had not long to chafe under the trysting-tree, if such it were. At
the very moment when he was stepping into the skiff, a casement window
that looked to the rear of the hacienda commenced turning upon its
hinges, and was then for a time held slightly ajar; as if some one
inside was intending to issue forth, and only hesitated in order to be
assured that the "coast was clear."
A small white hand--decorated with jewels that glistened under the light
of the moon--grasping the sash told that the individual who had opened
the window was of the gentler sex; the tapering fingers, with their
costly garniture, proclaimed her a lady; while the majestic figure--soon
after exhibited outside, on the top of the stairway that led down to the
garden--could be no other than that of Louise Poindexter.
It was she.
For a second or two the lady stood listening. She heard, or fancied she
heard, the dip of an oar. She might be mistaken; for the stridulation
of the cicadas filled the atmosphere with confused sound. No matter.
The hour of assignation had arrived; and she was not the one to stand
upon punctilios as to time--especially after spending two hours of
solitary expectation in her chamber, that had appeared like as many.
With noiseless tread descending the stone stairway, she glided
sylph-like among the statues and shrubs; until, arriving under the
shadow of the cotton-wood, she flung herself into arms eagerly
outstretched to receive her.
Who can describe the sweetness of such embrace--strange to say, sweeter
from being stolen? Who can paint the delicious emotions experienced at
such a moment--too sacred to be touched by the pen?
It is only after long throes of pleasure had passed, and the lovers had
begun to converse in the more sober language of life, that it becomes
proper, or even possible to report them.