The Indian lady was distinguished from her attendants by apparel similar in hues and splendour to that worn by Magdalena, and she had on her head a little cap or caul of emeralds, mingled with pearls. Her face was prepossessing, her figure well proportioned, and her bearing not without dignity. Yet there was in her aspect something of trouble and hesitation, and she went through the business of salutation, or rather homage, for so it appeared, with visible reluctance. She approached the throne, and kneeling before it, took Magdalena's hand, and laid it upon her head, speaking a few words which the Christian did not comprehend. Then taking the infant from the girl who bore it, she laid Magdalena's hand upon its innocent brows, in the same manner; after which she stepped aside, and the young attendants went each separately through the same ceremony. This accomplished, she stole from the apartment, and in a few moments, the spindle rolled, the shuttle of the simple loom rattled, and the fingers of the embroiderers and feather-painters moved over their tasks. The morning passed away, and Magdalena still expected a summons to the presence of Juan. The evening darkened, the fragrant torches were lighted, the pipe and dance were again summoned to close the labours of the day, and Magdalena was, a second time, conducted to her chamber, to muse with fear and distrust over her singular situation. The second day beheld the same ceremonies, succeeded by the same labours and diversions, and still not a movement indicated the approach of a messenger. She looked upon the maidens around,--their faces were grave and placid. They gazed upon her no more, except when her eyes were averted. She imagined a thousand reasons to account for her seclusion. Was her brother, notwithstanding his assurances to the contrary, in a state of as much restraint as herself? Or--was it possible?--did it not depend upon himself?--was it possible, he did not desire to see her? She thought of his slowness to admit her claim of consanguinity; she thought of the words of Camarga,--of their wildness--Had not Juan said he was insane?--of their insufficiency. Nay, she remembered that Juan spoke of _his_ father, whom he well remembered; and among the tears she shed of doubt and disappointment, she blushed at the boldness and warmth with which she had advocated her claims.