I felt that Dona Orosia's eyes were upon me, and I believed that she liked me none the less for my hostility to the man. It may have been this that gave me courage--I do not know--I think I would not have touched his hand in any case. He flushed deeply when I put both of mine behind my back; then, with the utmost effrontery, he leaned forward and plucked away one little black rosette that had fallen loose from my curls and was slipping down upon my shoulder. This he raised to his lips with a laugh, and then fastened upon his breast. I was deeply angered, and I cast about for some means of retaliation that would show him the scorn I held him in. At the foot of the pavilion stood the youth who was holding Melinza's horse. I leaned over the railing, and, loosing quickly from my hair the fellow to the rosette Don Pedro wore, I tossed it to the lad below, saying, in almost the only Spanish words I knew,-- "It is a gift!" Melinza's face grew white with anger; he tore off the bit of riband and ground it under his heel; then he strode down the stair, mounted his horse, and rode away. The Governor's lady watched him till he was out of sight; then, with a strange smile, she said to me,-- "I never knew before that blue eyes had so much of fire in them. I think, my little saint, 'tis time I sent you back to your old duenna." "I would thank you for so much grace!" was my reply. And back to Barbara I was despatched forthwith. But though I have been some hours in my chamber, my indignation has not cooled. The very sight of that man's countenance is more than I can endure! I am resolved that I will never set foot outside my door when there is any chance of my encountering him, and so I shall inform the Governor's wife when she returns.... She laughs at me! She declares I shall do whatever is her pleasure! And what is my puny strength to hers? With all the will in the world to resist her, I am as wax in her hands! CHAPTER XIII. The first day of March. For six months I have added nothing to this record; though time and again I have taken up my pen to write, and then laid it by, with no mark upon the fresh page. Can heartache be written down in words? Can loneliness and longing,--the desolation of one who has no human creature on whom to lavish love and care,--the dull misery that is known only to those whose best beloved are suffering the worst woes of this woeful life,--can all these be told? Ah, no! one can only feel them--bear them--and be crushed by them. If it had not been for the good old dame, I know not what would have become of me. Many a day and many a night I have clung to her for hours, weeping--crying aloud, "I cannot bear it! I cannot!" What choice had I but to bear it? And tears cannot flow forever; the calm of utter weariness succeeds.