The day set for Canterac’s great surprise party to the _marquesa_ had
arrived. Under Moreno’s direction the workmen set up the last trees in
the level space near the river.
Groups of curiosity seekers were already admiring from afar the
Frenchman’s improvisation of a wood. From Fuerte Sarmiento, and from as
far as the capital of the territory of Neuquen, sight-seers were
arriving, attracted by the novelty of the _fiesta_ that was to be given
at La Presa. Some workmen were still busy swinging ropes of vines from
tree to tree, and nailing up clusters of banners.
Friterini, raised to the proud rank of head-waiter, had taken his
somewhat dusty swallow tail out of his trunk, and had donned this relic
of the days when he had served as emergency waiter in the hotels of
Europe and Buenos Aires. Throwing out his stiff shirt bosom, and
nervously struggling every few minutes with his white tie, he directed
the operations of a troup of half-breed women from the _boliche_ who had
been transformed into waitresses and were setting the tables for the
afternoon’s entertainment.
Don Antonio, in other words, the _Gallego_, had also been transformed,
at least outwardly, for the occasion. He wore a black suit, and a thick
gold chain dangled across his waistcoat. Don Antonio was one of the
guests of the occasion; his right to figure among the important
personages of the settlement had been recognized. However, as the
refreshments had been entrusted to his establishment, he had thought it
advisable to transfer himself to the scene of the festivities as early
in the afternoon as possible in order to see to it that the preparations
were properly attended to.
Among the spectators on the other side of the wire enclosure were
several _gauchos_, among them the notorious Manos Duras, who, after the
affair at the boliche, had quietly returned to the settlement in order
to offer the explanations he thought adequate. He did not for a moment
deny that some of those who had provoked the affair were friends of his,
but they were all older and more experienced men than he, so he couldn’t
very well be responsible for their acts. He wasn’t their father. When
the row occurred he was far away from the settlement. What was the idea
anyway in trying to implicate him in things for which he was not to
blame?
The _comisario_ had to content himself with these explanations; the
proprietor of the _boliche_ also made haste to accept them, in the
belief that it was better to number the _gaucho_ among one’s friends
than one’s enemies. And now Manos Duras stood contemplating with a
somewhat mocking stare the preparations for the garden party. The other
_gauchos_, as silent as he, seemed to be laughing to themselves at all
the goings-on. Those _gringos_, carrying trees away from the spot where
God had planted them ... and for a _woman_!
The inhabitants of La Presa were more outspoken in their comments. In
fact some were quite vociferous about them, and the better dressed of
the women expressed themselves very freely on the subject of the
_marquesa_.
“That great big doll ... _tal!_ What she gets the men to do for her!”
And they rehearsed the expenditures that Pirovani, close, even
hard-fisted in his dealings with the workmen, had made for this
_gringa_. Every single day the train from Buenos Aires, or Bahía Blanca
brought in presents for the _marquesa_, and all paid for out of the
contractor’s pocket. And then there was the cart with a great tank set
up on it, that did nothing else all day long but bring water from the
river to the _marquesa’s_ house, just because she had to have a bath
every day!
“She must have something on her skin that won’t come off,” some of the
women gravely asserted.
To all of them, obliged as they were to go to the river with a jar on
their hips when they wanted water, this tank and cart represented the
most unheard of and extravagant of comforts. A bath every day in that
land where the slightest breath of wind raised columns of fine dust,
columns so enormous that one had to bend way over towards the ground in
order to keep one’s balance under their impact ...! And as every woman
in the settlement had in her hair and the linings of her clothes the
accumulated dust of a week, this extravagance in the use of water
enraged them all. It reminded them too vividly of the differences and
similarities between them and the _marquesa_. She had the things they
didn’t have; but she was a woman like them ... yet she never for a
moment shared in the life of this desert community as they knew it....
To console herself one of them maliciously alluded to the _marqués_,
“And to think that he’s likely to come along this afternoon with his
wife’s lovers! Would you believe that a man could be so blind? No, they
must both be in the game....”
And in this fashion all those who had not been invited, and who had no
other means of seeing the celebration than by peering through the wire
fence, were consoling themselves by making hostile remarks about the
_marquesa_, her friends and her husband.
Celinda rode her horse past the different groups; and she too looked
resentfully at the hastily improvised park. Then, perhaps so as not to
hear the scandalous remarks of the women, she made off towards the town.
Without for a moment neglecting to keep an eye on the preparation of the
tables for the refreshments, Gonzalez was talking with several of his
customers, and pointing to the river. He couldn’t have found a better
occasion for repeating with professorial gravity some of the things he
had heard his compatriot Robledo say about it.
“The Indians had named the river ‘Black’ because of the trouble they had
in paddling up its course against the swift current. Then the Spanish
explorers named it ‘River of the Willows’ because in former times so
many of these trees grew along its banks. There were fewer of them now,
but they still constituted the greatest obstacle to navigation, so many
were the roots and tree-trunks that rose like ram’s horns to batter in
the sides of small craft venturing on these waters. Several centuries
passed before it was explored; meanwhile the assertion made by the
Indians that it was possible to travel on its waters as far as Chile,
and that it formed a link between the Atlantic and Pacific, thus
providing a canal far more accessible than the straits of Magellan, was
generally believed.
“An English missionary attempted to explore it in the hope that his
discoveries would make it possible for England to take possession of the
region, and that this waterway would give her a vantage point for
attacking the Spanish colonies in the Pacific.
“And then the Spaniards, who had plenty to do because they owned most of
America, thought they had better get busy.
“It was Alfarez de la Armada, him they called Villamarino, who, in the
last third of the 18th century, when almost the whole of America had
been explored and colonized, performed this difficult and obscure task.
“Don Manuel says that Villamarino is the last representative of the
great race of Spanish explorers,” asserted the _Gallego_.
“With four small boats, heavily laden and not at all adequate to the
journey, he started from Carmen de Patagones on the Atlantic side with
an escort of sixty men. This handful of whites was going to plunge into
a totally unknown country, in which the most savage and blood-thirsty
Indians of the Southern continent were to be found. It was from the
banks of the _Rio Negro_ that the invasions of the civilized lands of
the viceroy of La Plata started; rather than invasions they were raids
by dark-skinned horsemen excited by the prospect of leading off as booty
the sleek cattle of the ranches around Buenos Aires. So, with his four
little boats, Villamarino was going to navigate for hundreds of leagues
between banks on which were ambushed numerous bands of Aucas, the
fiercest and most warlike of the native tribes.
“Only those of us who know how violent the current of this river can be
at times can imagine something of what that expedition must have been
like, navigating against the current, in boats propelled by long poles
and a bit of sail. They took along fifteen horses to drag the boats
along the shore in the places where there was no way of getting through
the tangle of roots, or where the rapids against them were too strong.
Four different times the high winds snapped off the masts.... Yes, as
don Manuel puts it, Villamarino was the last flash of that fire of
courage that had burned in the Spanish Conquistadores for nearly four
centuries. The expedition went on month after month. As they had no
_baqueano_ or guide, they often mistook the way and went up tributaries,
so that they had to retrace their steps sometimes for many miles....
They were looking for the sea that the Indians talked about so often....
And at last, at the end of the Limay, which is a part of the _Rio
Negro_, they came out on a sea--but an inland one--nothing more than
Lake Nahuel Huapi.... But one thing is certain, and that is that until
this river is cleaned up no modern explorer, not even with the boats we
have now, is going to repeat the trip that the ensign Villamarino
started out on a century and a half ago.”
Carried away by his patriotic enthusiasm, Gonzalez went on repeating to
his hearers all that the engineer had told him; but his audience was
rapidly melting away, attracted by the preparations for lunch. To most
of them the sight of the tables elaborately decorated for the occasion
was far more interesting than the _Gallego’s_ rhapsodies about the young
officer of the Spanish navy, and his descriptions of the ancient “River
of the Willows”....
The crowd was fast increasing. An orchestra, composed of a few Italians
who lived near Neuquen, began to shatter the air with the strident notes
of their brass instruments. At once several couples began to dance. This
struck don Antonio as a serious lack of respect for the organizer of the
festivities.
“Don’t let them dance until the _marquesa_ arrives,” he commanded to
Friterini. “This party is in her honor and the _señor_ de Canterac won’t
like it if it begins before she gets here.”
But neither musicians nor dancers had the slightest consideration for
don Antonio’s scruples.
Elena meanwhile, most elegantly dressed for the party, was sitting in
the drawing-room at home; and she was frowning.
“Such things as this happen to no one but me,” she was thinking. “Why in
the world should this news get here today, and just before the garden
party? And yet some people don’t believe in fate!”
That day happened to be one of those on which the train came down from
Buenos Aires bringing the mail. A short time after it had reached the
house Torre Bianca, his face white and full of consternation, came to
his wife’s room to show her a letter.
“Look Elena.... This is from our family lawyer....”
A glance at the sheet he held out to her showed her what the letter was.
It announced the death of Federico’s mother.
“_Ever since you went away to America, the señora marquesa’s health has
been very bad. We all of us knew that the end might come at any moment.
She was thinking of you when she died. We heard her speak your name even
after we thought she would never say another word._
“_We enclose a few particulars about the estate which
unfortunately...._”
Elena stopped reading to look with inquiring eyes at her husband. But he
stood with his head sunk between his shoulders, as though stricken
himself by the news. She hesitated about speaking; but as time passed
and he still stood brooding in silence, she said slowly:
“I suppose that this news, which really can’t have been so
unexpected--you remember you said several times that you feared this
must happen soon--isn’t going to keep us from going to the garden
_fête_?”
Torre Bianca raised his eyes and looked at her in amazement.
“What are you saying? Don’t you understand that it is my mother who has
died?”
Elena pretended to be somewhat embarrassed; then she said in a tone of
kindly sympathy,
“I am so sorry to hear of the poor lady’s death! She was your mother,
and that in itself is enough to make me grieve for her. But you must
remember, Federico, that I never saw her and that she knew me only from
photographs. Do be calm and try to be reasonable! Just because, on the
other side of the globe, this unhappy event has occurred we surely
aren’t going to deprive ourselves of going to a _fiesta_ that represents
a tremendous outlay of money, and that has been prepared especially for
us, by our friend....”
She drew near to her husband, and said in a melting voice, while she
caressed his cheek--
“After all, dear, one must have a certain regard for social conventions.
No one knows about this yet. Just pretend that the letter hasn’t arrived
and that you will receive it in day after tomorrow’s mail.... Yes, that
is the best way to manage it. You don’t know this sad news yet, and you
are coming with me this afternoon.... What do you gain by remembering it
now? There is time enough to think of this unfortunate happening
later....”
The _marqués_ indicated that he did not agree with her. Then he raised a
hand to his eyes, and leaning one elbow on his knees, he groaned softly
to himself,
“She was my mother ... my poor old loving mother....”
They were both silent for a long time. Then, as though unwilling to let
his wife see the grief he felt, the _marqués_ took refuge in the
adjoining room. Elena, scowling to herself, and in a thoroughly bad
humor, could hear him walking to and fro on the other side of the door;
and every now and then she heard him groan. Finally she opened the door
through which the _marqués_ had disappeared.
“You had better stay here, Federico. Don’t worry about me. I’ll go alone
and make up an excuse for your absence. I’ll see you later then, _alma
mía_! Of course you know that the only reason why I am leaving you now
is so as not to hurt our friend’s feelings. Oh, what a bore these social
obligations are!”
It was strange to hear the gently pitying tones of her voice when at the
same time the corners of her mouth were tense and twisted with anger.
She put on her hat and went out. From the top of the stairs she could
see the street, that was for once completely deserted. Everyone in town
had gone to see the “park,” Canterac and the contractor, each acting
independently, having declared the occasion a general holiday, forcing a
day of idleness upon their subordinates.
In front of the house there was a small four-wheeled cart in charge of a
half-breed who was asleep on the driver’s seat, a Paraguay cigar between
his thick bluish lips. A swarm of flies buzzed about his sweat-smeared
face.
Elena was thinking now of her admirers who must by this time be
impatiently looking for her. They had refrained from coming to get her,
inasmuch as the day before she had announced to them that she wished to
arrive at the party with no other escort than her husband. Elena had
come to believe that a lady always avoids giving any occasion for
gossip.
As she turned away from the house and approached the cart, she heard a
sound of galloping hoofs. A rider suddenly appeared from one of the
adjoining narrow streets. It was _Flor de Rio Negro_.
Elena, by a kind of intuition, like the instinctive alarm of an animal
when something hostile is approaching it, guessed that it was she who
was coming before she saw her. Without waiting for the horse to stop,
the reckless young rider slipped out of the saddle to the ground. Then,
with the slow gait of one who has not walked for some hours and is
surprised by the strange hard feel of the ground, she approached Elena.
“_Señora_, a word with you, only one!”
She stepped in between Elena and the cart, cutting her off.
In spite of her cold hauteur Elena was startled by the girl’s hostile
eyes. However, she tried to preserve her impressive calm, and with a
gesture seemed to inquire,
“Can it really be me you want?”
Celinda, quick enough to understand her, replied with a nod. As the
_marquesa_ lifted her hand, in an affectation of queenliness, giving the
girl permission to speak, Celinda asked in a tone that was sharp and
resonant with hate,
“Haven’t you enough with all these men you are driving mad? Do you have
to take away those who belong to other women too?”
Elena offered nothing by way of reply but a withering glance that swept
the girl from head to foot. Surely she was sufficiently superior to
crush the impudent young thing with a look....
“I don’t know you,” Elena was forced to say as the girl still barred her
passage. “Besides there are such differences in rank and education
separating us that it is useless for me to try to talk to you.”
She tried then to brush Celinda aside; but the girl, irritated beyond
bearing by her contemptuous glance, raised the small riding whip she
held in her left hand.
“You devil in skirts!”
She aimed a blow at Elena’s face; but the latter defended herself
promptly, clutching at her assailant’s arm. The older woman was
intensely pale, and her eyes had grown larger with amazement, while a
feline light gleamed in their pupils. Then she said in a voice that was
slightly hoarse,
“That will do! Don’t trouble ... I’ll consider the blow as given ... and
I shan’t forget the gift! I’ll return something equivalent when the
proper time comes....”
She let go her grip of Celinda’s arm. The girl seemed to have poured out
all her rage. With arms hanging limp, she stood motionless, as though
repenting of her attack on her enemy.
Elena made good use of this momentary respite, and climbing into the
cart, tapped the driver on the shoulder to rouse him from the sleep in
which he had been quite undisturbed by the scene going on within two
feet.
As soon as they had progressed beyond the limits of the town, Elena
caught sight of the park and the crowd streaming around it. A rider was
cantering in the opposite direction as though coming back from the
party. With a great sweep of his hat he saluted her. Recognizing Manos
Duras, she smiled mechanically in response to his greeting. Then,
without seriously taking account of what she was doing, she beckoned to
him. The _gaucho_ instantly swung his horse around and rode up to the
cart, following alongside.
“How are you, _señora_? Why are you so pale?”
Elena made an effort to regain her serenity. She must still bear the
traces of her recent violent emotions, and she wanted to reach the
_fiesta_ tranquil and smiling. No one must divine the insult she had
just received....
As though eager to put an end as quickly as possible to her conversation
with Manos Duras, she asked him gayly,
“You told me one day that you admired me and that you were ready to do
anything I might ask you, no matter how terrible....”
Manos Duras again raised his hand to his hat in salutation and smiled,
showing his sharp wolf’s teeth.
“Command what you will, _señora_. Shall I kill someone for you?”
As he spoke he looked at her with eyes in which glittered a wolfish
desire. Elena pretended to shrink back in alarm from what his words
suggested.
“Kill! Oh no! What do you take me for? On the contrary, the favor I ask
of you ought to be one you take pleasure in granting. Well, we’ll talk
it over. I’ll let you know when I need you....”
As the _gaucho_ lingered over his farewells, she indicated with a
vigorous gesture that he must leave her. They were now near the site of
the “park” and it would scarcely do for the _marquesa_ to arrive without
her husband and with such an escort!
Manos Duras reined in his horse to watch the cart roll down the road.
For some minutes his eyes followed that most extraordinary and
fascinating of all the women he had ever encountered. Then, as she
passed out of sight, his submissive watch-dog’s expression changed to
one of harsh aggressiveness.
The guests were entering the artificial park in full view of the envious
populace who were constrained, by the _comisario’s_ vigilance, and that
of his four henchmen, to remain outside the wire fence. The guests were
for the most part Spanish and Italian merchants from the nearest small
towns. Some of them had come from as far as the island of Choel-Choel,
the last stopping place of the few boats navigating up the river. Also
the foremen and machinists of the works were arriving with their wives,
arrayed in the clothes that they kept packed away for their excursions
to Bahía Blanca or Buenos Aires.
Robledo was wandering through the short avenues of the park, looking
ironically about at Canterac’s absurd creation. Moreno was pointing out
with a good deal of pride the particularly admirable features of that
part of the work which he had attended to himself.
“The handsomest thing of all is a kind of summerhouse or shrine of
flowers at the end of the arbor. Undoubtedly the captain will try to
carry off the _marquesa_ and keep her there awhile, but she’s clever
enough, she’ll know how to get away when she wants to....”
He winked knowingly as he spoke of Canterac’s plans; then, very gravely,
by way of affirming still further his belief in the _marquesa’s_
prudence, he remarked that “she was not the kind of woman that some
people believed her to be.”
He seemed disposed to show Robledo the remarkable “shrine of flowers”
when suddenly he sped away, mumbling excuses, in the direction of the
entrance to the park. Elena was arriving! And, just as he ran, so did
her other admirers; but, after greeting them all three, she quite
frankly showed her preference for Watson, who had, with a somewhat more
dignified pace, also gone to meet her. Even while she talked to the
others she did not cease looking at the youth with caressing glances.
Robledo, watching the group from afar, was immediately aware of the
preference Elena was betraying for his young partner.
Annoyed by this discovery, he drew near to pay his respects to the guest
of honor. Then he turned to Watson, and, in a low tone, asked him to
take a turn through the tree-bordered _allée_. But Watson pretended not
to understand him. Finally Canterac, who, as the creator of the
_fiesta_, assumed an overwhelming superiority, interposed, and
separating Elena from the others, offered her his arm. He must show her
all the beauties of his park.... Robledo took advantage of this
diversion to lead Watson away under the trees. Scarcely were they alone
when, in a fatherly tone, and with a slight nod towards the woman who
was walking away down the path, leaning on Canterac’s arm, he said,
“Take care, Richard, my boy! This Circe of ours is trying to subdue you
too to her enchantments....”
But Watson, who had always listened deferentially to his partner up to
the present, now looked haughtily at him.
“I am old enough to know how to take care of myself,” he replied drily.
“Besides, when I want advice I shall ask for it.”
Muttering a few words that Robledo could not make out, young Watson
turned his back on him and left him.
Robledo was startled by the boy’s manner. Then he grew indignant.
“This woman again! She goes too far ... robbing me of my best
friend....”
The most interesting part of the _fiesta_, as far as the majority of the
guests were concerned, was about to begin. Friterini began to shout out
orders to the half-breeds who were to be the waitresses of the occasion.
On the tables, made of boards laid on small wooden horses, and covered
with recently laundered tablecloths, the rarest and most savory
delicacies of the boliche and the other dispensaries of meat and drink
in the immediate vicinity of Rio Negro, were being assembled. From
Europe and the distant parts of America came choice morsels that had a
flavor of tin and tin foil. There were potted meats from Chicago,
Frankfort’s famous sausages, French _pâté de foie gras_, Galician
sardines, peppers from Rioja, olives from Seville, all of them foods
that had crossed the ocean in metal boxes or wooden crates.
Most extraordinary of all were the drinks. Only a few _gringos_, those
who were natives of the so-called “Latin countries,” paid any attention
to the bottles of dusky wine. The other guests, especially the native
sons of the soil, considered all beverages of a reddish hue very
ordinary drinks indeed, and quite beneath their notice. In their opinion
the clearness and colorlessness of a wine was a mark of its
aristocracy. The popping of champagne corks resounded continuously. And
many were there who tossed off the sparkling wines as though they were
water.
“All this would be pretty expensive in Europe,” exclaimed a greasy-faced
Russian. “But here, with the difference in exchange!...”
The order-loving Moreno contemplated the increasing thirst of the guests
with considerable anxiety. At the same time, with mysterious gestures,
and words muttered in passing, he admonished the enthusiastic Friterini,
urging him to be sparing and prudent.
“Provided Canterac’s _pesos_ hold out!” he said to himself. “But it
begins to look as though we wouldn’t have money enough to pay for it
all.”
Meanwhile the Frenchman, with Elena on his arm, was walking under the
trees, or stopping to point out the largest of them to his companion.
“This is scarcely the park of Versailles, _bella marquesa_,” he was
saying, imitating the gallantry of past centuries. “But, however humble
it may be, it represents the great interest that one man here takes in
making himself agreeable to you....”
Pirovani, pretending to be absorbed in his thoughts, was following them
from a moderate distance. He could not conceal how much this garden
_fête_, conceived and executed by his rival, annoyed him. He had to
acknowledge that he would never have been able to think of anything like
this. It only proved what an advantage it was to have had an
education....
As he advanced through the artificial park he tried, without being seen,
to push with all his weight against the trees nearest him in the hope
that they would fall over. But his evil desires were of no avail. All
the trees stood firmly erect and immovable. That fool of a Moreno had
done things well in so far as helping Canterac was concerned.
But the Italian’s hands turned cold, and all his blood seemed to rush to
his heart when he saw the couple he was following disappear in an arbor
of dense foliage at the far end of a tree-bordered avenue. This was
Moreno’s “shrine of flowers.”
“Now the queen can sit on her throne,” said Canterac. And he pointed to
a rustic bench which had a kind of canopy over it, made of garlands of
foliage and paper flowers.
Excited by finding himself alone with the _marquesa_, the engineer began
to talk in an impassioned manner of his love for her and of the
sacrifices he was ready to make for her. He had often gone on in this
way before, but never with such intensity. Stimulated by the success of
his plans up to this point, he was nearly beside himself at the thought
of having a prolonged _tête à tête_ with Elena in the bower he had made
for her.
She sat down on the rustic bench with the engineer by her side but,
although still wearing a provocative smile, she seemed a trifle uneasy.
Canterac seized both her hands, and leaned over towards her mouth.
Elena, on her guard, eluded him, and struggled to free herself from his
grasp.
This struggle was going on when Pirovani appeared at the entrance to the
bower. But neither of its two occupants could see him. The contest
continued, Canterac bent on reaching the _marquesa’s_ lips, Elena,
unmindful now of her coquettish pruderies, violently repulsing him.
“This isn’t fair,” she panted. “And my hair will be all disarranged! You
are going to spoil my hat.... Do please stop! If you don’t I shall leave
you!”
She was defending herself so energetically that Pirovani thought it the
moment to intervene. He resolutely stepped into the “shrine.” At sight
of him Canterac let go his hold of Elena and stood up. While the
_marquesa_ picked up her hair pins and straightened her hat, the two men
glared at one another. Finally the Italian spoke.
“You seem in great haste,” he remarked sarcastically, “to collect your
pay for what the party has cost you.”
To Canterac it seemed so incredible that the contractor should dare
insult him to his face, and in the costly park that was his own
invention, that he remained speechless for several seconds. Then his
anger, the anger of the man accustomed to commanding and receiving
obedience, broke out in a cold blinding flash.
“What right have _you_ to speak to _me_?... I ought to have known better
than to have invited as my guest an ignorant immigrant, who has made his
money God knows how....”
Pirovani became furious, raging at receiving such an insult, and before
Elena. And, as the hot violence within him clamored for satisfaction, by
way of reply he threw himself upon the engineer and struck him a heavy
blow. In a flash the two men had come to grips and were bending
backwards and forwards in desperate attempts to gain the advantage; and
Elena, her serenity quite gone, was crying in alarm.
There was a general rush towards the bower, Robledo and Watson arriving
first, and together. The engineer and the contractor, tightly grasping
one another, were rolling on the floor, breaking down as they did so a
part of the “shrine.”
Pirovani, heavier and more powerful than Canterac, was crushing the
latter with his weight. Rage had made the contractor forget all the
Spanish he knew, and in Italian he was hurling out blasphemies alluding
to the Virgin and most of the inhabitants of Heaven, and imploring those
who were trying to separate him from the Frenchman to let him devour his
adversary’s “gizzard.” In a few seconds he had reverted to the years of
his adolescence when in some “gin shop” of the Genoese waterfront, he
would knock down some one of his companions in poverty, and roll on the
ground with him, pommelling him, and hurling epithets even more violent
than his blows.
By dint of vigorous pulling and the application of several fists, some
of the men finally succeeded in separating the two assailants. Watson,
with utter contempt for both of them, rushed to the _marquesa_ and stood
in an attitude of defense before her as though she were menaced by some
danger.
Robledo looked at the two rivals. Each one of them from the midst of the
group that had gathered round him, was insulting the other, eyes
blood-shot, tongues thick and stammering with rage. Both of them had for
the moment forgotten all the Spanish they had learnt, and were
ejaculating the worst words they knew in their respective native
languages.
Then he turned to look at the _marquesa_, who was sighing and exclaiming
like a child, while she leaned against Richard Watson.
“Now we’re in for it,” muttered Robledo to himself. “There’ll be murder
done yet for that woman!” and without looking again at Watson he turned
away.