The click of
a cavalry sabre, the sound of a footfall on the pavement of the
distant Konigsstrasse, were distinctly audible; a far-off railway
whistle was startling in its abruptness. In the midst of this calm
the opening of the door of the salon, with the sudden uplifting of
voices in the hall, told Paul that Yerba's guests were leaving. He
heard Dona Anna's arch accents--arch even to Colonel Pendleton's
monotonous baritone!--Milly's high, rapid utterances, the suave
falsetto of Don Caesar, and HER voice, he thought a trifle
wearied,--the sound of retiring footsteps, and all was still again.
So still that the rhythmic beat of the distant waltz returned to
him, with a distinctiveness that he could idly follow. He thought
of Rosario and the rose-breath of the open windows with a strange
longing, and remembered the half-stifled sweetness of her happy
voice rising with it from the veranda. Why had he ever let it pass
from him then and waft its fragrance elsewhere? Why-- What was
that?
The slight turning of a latch! The creaking of the French window
of the salon, and somebody had slipped softly half out on the
balcony. His heart stopped beating. From his position in the
recess of his own window, with his back to the partition of the
salon, he could see nothing.
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