unspeakable relief of the neighborhood for miles around, he had
vanished as suddenly as he had come, and for years was seen no more.

A Moorish Princess! It is her cousin and lover's favorite name for her,
and it fits well. There is a certain barbaric splendor about her as
she stands here in the firelight, in her trailing purple silk, in the
cross of rubies and fine gold that burns on her bosom, in the yellow,
perfumy rose in her hair, looking stately, and beautiful, and
dreadfully out of temper.

The big, lonesome house is as still as a tomb. Outside the wind is
rising, and the heavy patter, patter, of the rain-beats on the glass.
That, and the light fall of the cinders in the polished grate, are the
only sounds to be heard.

A clock on the mantel strikes seven. She has not stirred for nearly an
hour, but she looks up now, her black eyes full of passionate anger,
passionate impatience.

"Seven!" she says, in a suppressed sort of voice; "and he should have
been here at six. What if he should defy me?--what if he does not come
after all?"

She can remain still no longer. She walks across the room, and she
walks as only Spanish women do. She draws back one of the
window-curtains, and leans out into the night. The crushed sweetness
of the rain-beaten roses floats up to her in the wet darkness. Nothing
to be seen but the vague tossing of the trees, nothing to be heard but
the soughing of the wind, nothing to be felt but the fast and still
faster falling of the rain.