"Do you think I shall ever forget you? If I go, it will be to win
promotion, fame--a better, higher, more honourable position for you to
share."
It was at this moment that La Zandunga interrupted the lovers with her
resonant, unpleasant voice.
"My aunt! my aunt! Run, Stanislas! do not let her see you, in Heaven's
name!"
The Serjeant disappeared promptly, but the old virago caught a glimpse
of his retreating figure.
"With whom were you gossiping there, good-for-nothing?" cried La
Zandunga, fiercely. "I seemed to catch the colour of his coat. If I
thought it was that son of Satan, the serjeant, who is ever
philandering and following you about--Who was it, I say?"
Mariquita would not answer.
"In with you, shameless, idle daughter of pauper parents, who died in
my debt, leaving you on my hands! Is it thus that you repay me my
bounty--the home I give you--the bread you eat? Go in, jade, and earn
it, or I'll put you into the street."
The girl, bending submissively under this storm of invective and
bitter reproach, walked slowly towards the house. Her aunt followed,
growling fiercely.
"Cursed red-coat!--common, beggarly soldier! How can you, an Hidalgo
of the best blue blood, whose ancestors were settled here before the
English robbers stole the fortress--before the English?--before the
Moors! You, an Hidalgo, to take up with a base-born hireling
cut-throat--"
"No more, aunt!" Mariquita turned on her with flashing eyes.
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