In the Spanish soul of Tia Teresa there was bitter hate still, and fierce joy even now that the hour of retribution was approaching—that at last after all those years her little Rosetta would be avenged. Yet time had had some mellowing influences, for in her musings now she experienced a vague sense of uneasiness for possible consequences that in former times had never for a moment been tolerated. The true spirit of the vendetta had always been in her very blood—strike when you can, without thought of what may happen next. But now she was thinking of coming happenings—of sorrow perhaps for Merle, of the undoubted danger for Don Manuel himself. And while thus she conned the chances, her head bent in deep meditation, her eyes half closed, Ricardo Robles, approaching with noiseless step, stood by her side and laid an affectionate hand upon her shoulder. “I have come, Tia Teresa,” he said simply, as he sat down at the edge of the little rustic table. CHAPTER XXXII—Forebodings FOR this last hour, Don Manuel,” she said, placing a hand on his, “I have been going over all the long story of the past, from the days when you were a little boy and Rosetta was suckled at my bosom. Why should I not have loved her?” asked the old duenna almost fiercely. “Why should I not love her still?” she added, in a lower tone, as she bowed her head and covered her eyes with her disengaged hand. “There is love that can never die, Don Manuel.” “Nor should we wish it otherwise,” he said gently, caressing the hand extended toward him. “And this very night our undying love for dear little Rosetta will be proved—tonight at last she will be avenged.” With a start Tia Teresa sat erect. “Then it is all arranged?” she asked breathlessly. “Yes, all finally arranged,” was his quiet rejoinder. “We meet this evening on Comanche Point—the place where I have always vowed he should answer for his crime. And you remember what day this is?” “I remember—can I ever forget?—the very day we found her dead beneath the cliff.” “The very day, Tia Teresa. So my vengeance will be complete. Before now I could have shot him a dozen times. But he would never have known that his death was by my hand. Tonight, however, he will know. And he will realize that the vendetta is the law of God—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; his life, so precious to himself, for hers so dear to us in the happy old-time days.” “But you, Don Manuel?” she asked fearfully.