"
"Your sister, signora, has said something different.... She did not
want to tell me, but I persisted--I saw that something was wrong--and
forced it from her."
"Enough!" Orsi commanded. "One can see plainly that you have been
duped; some things may be overlooked.... You have talked enough."
Mochales moved easily forward.
"You pudding!" he said in a low even voice. "Do you talk to me--Abrego
y Mochales?"
A dark tide of passion, visible even in the night, flooded Orsi's
countenance.
"Leave!" he insisted, "Or I'll have you flung into the bay."
A deep silence followed, in which Lavinia could hear the stir of the
water against the walls below. A sharp fear entered her heart, a new
dread of the Spaniard. He was completely outside the circle of impulses
which she understood and to which she reacted. He was not a part of her
world; he coldly menaced the foundations of all right and security. Her
worship of romance died miserably. In a way, she thought, she was
responsible for the present horrible situation; it was the result of
the feeling she had had for Mochales. Lavinia was certain that if Gheta
had not known of it the Spaniard would have been quickly dropped by the
elder. She was suddenly conscious of the perfume he always bore; that,
curiously, lent him a strange additional oppression.
"Mochales," he said in a species of strained wonderment, "threatened
... thrown into the bay! Mochales--the Flower of Spain! And by a
helpless mound of fat, a tub of entrails----"
"Cesare!" Lavinia cried in an energy of desperation.
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