She had not faded during the
interim of time since the reader left her with Lorenzo Bezan's
letter in her hand; but a soft, tender, yet settled melancholy had
possessed the beautiful lineaments and expressive lines of her
features. She was not happy. She had no confidant, and no one knew
her secret save herself; but an observant person would easily have
detected the deep shadow that lay upon her soul.
We say she had not faded-nor had she; there was the same soft and
beautiful expression in her face, even more tender than before; for
it had lost the tinge of alloy that pride was wont to impart to it;
where pride had existed before, there now dwelt tender melancholy,
speaking from the heart, and rendering the lovely girl far, far more
interesting and beautiful. She had wept bitter, scalding tears over
that last farewell between herself and Lorenzo Bezan in the prison;
she blamed herself bitterly now that she had let him depart thus;
but there was no reprieve, no recalling the consequences; he was
gone, and forever!
Communication with the home government was seldom and slowly
consummated, and an arrival at that period from Old Spain was an
event. Partly for this reason, and partly because there was no one
to write to her, Isabella, nor indeed her father, had heard anything
of Lorenzo Bezan since his departure.
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