untry life had made her as strong
and vigorous as the sturdy young trees that adorned the landscape ever
beneath her eyes. In health and strength she was a true daughter of the
Bohemians, a race whose vigor has never been impaired by the luxuries
and restraints of civilization. She had not the olive complexion and
fiery temper of her father, but she had inherited from her mother that
delicate beauty and that refinement of manner which made it almost
impossible for one to believe that Tiepoletta was the daughter of
Corcovita.

Dolores was as energetic as her father and as lovely as her mother. Her
brilliant dark eyes betrayed an ardent temperament and unusual power of
will. She was no fragile creature, but a healthy, spirited, beautiful
young girl, the robust scion of a hardy and fruitful tree. Had she been
reared among the gypsies, she might have been coarsely handsome; but
education had softened her charms while it developed her intellect, and
though but seventeen she was already one of those dazzling beauties who
defy description and who eclipse all rivals whenever they appear. The
soul was worthy of the casket that enshrined it; and the reader who
follows this narrative to its close cannot fail to acknowledge the
inherent nobility of this young girl, who was destined to play a role as
heroic as it was humble in the great drama of the Revolution, and whose
devotion, purity, unselfishness and indomitable courage elevated her
high above the plane of poor, erring humanity.

Had it not been for Philip's prolonged absence, Dolores would have been
perfectly happy at this period of her life. Separated from their son,
the Marquis and his wife seemed to regard her with redoubled
tenderness. Her wishes were their law. To amuse her, they took her to
Nimes, to Montpellier and to Avignon; and she was everywhere welcomed as
the daughter of the great house of Chamondrin, whose glory had been
veiled in obscurity for a quarter of a century, only to emerge again
more radiant than ever. Dolores was really happy. She was looking
forward to a speedy meeting with her beloved Philip; and he shared this
hope, for had he not written in a recent letter: "I expect to see you
all soon and to spend several weeks at Chamondrin, as free from care and
as happy as in days gone by?" In a still later letter Philip said: "I am
eager to start for home, but sometimes the journey seems to be attended
by many difficulties. Should it prove an impossibility,