e of her misfortune returned.
She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself
stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave
the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat
down by her father.

The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In
one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him
of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was
not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very
little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only
sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the
open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his
old gun, on watch over his honour.

Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his
excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was
gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing.

"No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite
of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the
rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get
some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help
him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!"

She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made;
and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women
had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was
like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man
to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled.

She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned
her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal
tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat.
Then she rose and walked over to her.

"Listen--you," she said, roughly.

The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew,
excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this
vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether
she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their
mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And
suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little
fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in
Giselle's heart.