"Good! My mother speaks well; hence the sachem may come after breakfast?"
"He can come when he thinks proper. We will receive him, as he desires it."
The Indian went out, and the two ladies were left alone. "We are going to know our fate at last," Doña Emilia said, with a feigned indifference she was far from feeling.
"Yes," her daughter replied sorrowfully. "Heaven grant that a feeling of pity may still reside in the heart of this savage, and that the propositions he makes us may not be of such a nature that we must decline them."
"Heaven grant it, indeed, my daughter! Alas, who knows what fate reserves for us! Perhaps you will regret that you did not die during your illness." The girl remained silent for a moment, and then a gloomy smile played round her pale lips.
"Mother," she asked, "have you kept your vial?"
"Yes," Doña Emilia answered; "it still contains enough to kill us both."
"In that case rejoice, mother," the maiden answered, almost gaily, "we have nothing more to fear! Whatever proposition this crafty chief may make to us, we are always certain of getting out of his clutches, and finding refuge in death."
"It is well, daughter!" Doña Emilia replied, as she took Diana in her arms, and pressed her passionately to her heart.
So great is the effect that a powerful resolution always produces, that the two ladies awaited the chief's coming more calmly than they had hoped. They had scarce finished breakfast ere he appeared. The majordomo had, for this interview, doffed his Indian dress, and resumed that of the Mexican campesinos. This change denoted a resolution formed that he would allow no consideration to stop him. On recognizing him the two ladies uttered a cry, of surprise on the part of Diana, but of terror on that of her mother. She had discovered what she long suspected, that is to say, that her husband's majordomo was a traitor. On entering, he bowed to the ladies with ironical politeness; his face was smiling, his manner firm, and his voice coaxing.
"I venture to hope, señoras," he said, "that you will pardon a poor Indian."
"Oh," Doña Emilia said bitterly, "what a viper we have cherished!"
"Alas! Madam," he answered lightly, "why employ such ugly epithets? Everybody in this world is obliged to bow before necessity. It was not, be assured, of my own accord that I have so long remained a stranger to you."