"
Was that his only reason? Mariquita put her hand upon her heart, which
had almost ceased beating. She was sick with apprehension. Did not
Benito's departure forebode evil for her lover?
Just then her eye fell upon a piece of crumpled paper lying on the
floor--part of a letter, it seemed. Almost mechanically--with no
special intention at least--she stooped to pick it up.
"What have you got there?" asked her aunt.
"A letter."
"It must be Benito's; he probably dropped it in the scuffle. Do you
know that he dared to raise his hand against my worthy husband?"
"If it is Benito's I have no desire to touch it," said Mariquita,
disdainfully.
"Throw it into the yard, then," said her aunt.
Mariquita accordingly went to the back door and out into the garden,
round which she walked listlessly, once or twice, forgetting what she
held in her hand.
Then she looked at it in an aimless, absent way, and began to read
some of the words.
The letter was in Spanish, written in a female hand. It said--
"Wait till he goes back to the Crimea, then follow him instantly. On
arrival at Balaclava go at once to the Maltese baker whose shop is at
the head of the bay near Kadikoi; he will give you employment. This
will explain and cover your presence in the camp. You will visit all
parts of it, selling bread.
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