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Chapter 9
Whatdoyousay?AmItokeeparoofoverherhead?AmItotry—andsavealltheBlancostogetherwithher?”
“Youshalldoit,”saidoldViolainastrongvoice.“Youshalldoitasmysonwouldhave....”
“Thyson,viejo!....Thereneverhasbeenamanlikethyson.Ha,Imusttry....Butwhatifitwereonlyapartofthecursetoluremeon?...Andsoshecalleduponmetosave—andthen——?”
“Shespokenomore.”TheheroicfollowerofGaribaldi,atthethoughtoftheeternalstillnessandsilencefallenupontheshroudedformstretchedoutonthebedupstairs,avertedhisfaceandraisedhishandtohisfurrowedbrow.“ShewasdeadbeforeIcouldseizeherhands,”hestammeredout,pitifully.
BeforethewideeyesoftheCapataz,staringatthedoorwayofthedarkstaircase,floatedtheshapeoftheGreatIsabel,likeastrangeshipindistress,freightedwithenormouswealthandthesolitarylifeofaman.Itwasimpossibleforhimtodoanything.Hecouldonlyholdhistongue,sincetherewasnoonetotrust.Thetreasurewouldbelost,probably—unlessDecoud....Andhisthoughtcameabruptlytoanend.HeperceivedthathecouldnotimagineintheleastwhatDecoudwaslikelytodo.
OldViolahadnotstirred.AndthemotionlessCapatazdroppedhislong,softeyelashes,whichgavetotheupperpartofhisfierce,black-whiskeredfaceatouchoffeminineingenuousness.Thesilencehadlastedforalongtime
