Work was over; there were sounds of
cheerful preparations for supper; from the house came faint
chords of laughter; a Spanish song floated in, as Carara told his
love to the tune of Mariedetta's guitar:
"'Adios! adios! adios! por siempre,
Adios! coqueta, mi amor;
Adios! adios! adios! por siempre,
Adios! coqueta, mi amor!'"
It was the hush that precedes the evening as it does the dawn;
the hour of reverie, in which all music is sweet, and forgotten
faces arise to haunt.
Speed stood where the girl had left him, miserable, hopeless,
helpless; the words of the Spanish song seemed sung for a lost
love of his. And certainly his love was lost. He had stayed on in
the stubborn superstitious belief that something would surely
happen to relieve him from his predicament--fortune had never
failed him before--and instead, every day, every incident, had
served to involve him deeper. Now she knew! It was her golden
heart that had held her true thus far, but could any devotion
survive the sight of humiliation such as he would suffer on the
morrow? Already he heard the triumphant jeers of the Centipede
henchmen, the angry clamor of the Flying Heart, the mocking
laughter of his rival.
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