Since she had become the affianced wife
of a man of McKay's rank and position, both the termagant aunt and
cross-grained uncle had treated her with unbounded respect. They would
not allow her to be vexed or worried by any one, least of all by
Benito, who, as soon as the English officer was out of the way, again
began to haunt the house.
It was about her that they were having high words a day or two after
McKay's departure.
Mariquita overheard them.
"You shall not see her, I tell you!" said La Zandunga, with shrill
determination. "The sweet child is sad and sick at heart."
"She has broken mine, as you have your word to me. I shall never be
happy more."
He spoke as though he was in great distress, and his grief, if false,
was certainly well feigned.
"Bah!" said old Pedro. "No man ever died of unrequited love. There are
as good fish in the sea."
"I wanted this one," said Benito, in deep dejection. "No matter; I am
going away. There is a fine chance yonder, and I may perhaps forget
her."
"Where, then?" asked the old woman.
"In the Crimea. I start to-morrow."
"Go, in Heaven's keeping," said Tio Pedro.
"And never let us see you again," added La Zandunga, whose sentiments
towards Benito had undergone an entire change in the last few months.
"May I not see her to say good-bye?"
"No, you would only agitate her.
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