Gustave Aimard - The Tiger-Slayer - A Tale of the Indian Desert

And, without deigning to add a word, he walked out slowly, carefully closing the door after him.

As soon as she was alone the young girl bent down as if listening, tottered a few steps forward, raised her hands with a nervous gesture to her contracted throat – then, pealing forth a piercing cry, fell back on the floor.

She had fainted.

It was about eight in the evening when the Count de Lhorailles left the residence of Don Sylva de Torrés. The feria de plata was then in all its splendour. The streets of Guaymas were thronged with a joyful and motley crowd: the shouts of songs and laughter rose on every side. The piles of gold heaped on the monte tables emitted their yellow and intoxicating reflection in the dazzling gleams of the lights, that shone in every door and window: here and there the sounds of the vihuelas and jarabes escaped from the pulquerías, invaded by the drinkers. The count, elbowed and elbowing, traversed as quickly as was possible the dense groups which at every instant barred his passage; but the conversation he had had with Don Sylva had put him in too happy a temper for him to dream of being vexed at the numerous collisions he endured at every moment.

At length, after numberless difficulties, and wasting at least thrice the time he would have employed under other circumstances, he reached at about ten in the evening, the house where he lodged. He had spent about two hours in covering less than six hundred yards.

On arriving at the mesón, the count proceeded first to the corral to see his horse, to which he gave, with his own hand, two trusses of alfalfa; then, after ordering that he should be called at one o'clock, if by accident (which was most improbable) he retired to his cuarto to take a few hours' rest.

The count intended to start at such an early hour in order to avoid the heat of the day, and travel more quickly. Besides, after his lengthened conversation with Don Sylva, the noble adventurer was not sorry to find himself alone, in order to go over in his mind all the happy things that had happened during the past evening.

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I salute you, most pure Mary! Eleven has struck, and it rains.