Drowsily, Myra opened her eyes, awakened by the clatter made by Madre
Dolores as she set down a tray on which was a breakfast of coffee and
rolls by her bedside.
"Buenos dias, señorita," said Dolores, as Myra, unable to realise for a
few moments where she was, blinked at her sleepily and dazedly.
"Buenos dias," repeated Myra mechanically. "Let me see, that is
Spanish for 'good morning,'" she added to herself, stretching
luxuriously and yawning. "I wonder where the maid is who speaks
English?"
And then the mists of sleep lifted suddenly as she sat up in bed and
she remembered everything vividly. Dolores, eyeing her curiously,
wondered why the English señorita blushed furiously, wondered what she
could have said to cause the fair señorita such obvious embarrassment.
"Possibly it is not anything I have said which caused her to blush,"
reflected the old woman. "Maybe she is thinking of last night,
remembering that I saw the master carrying her to bed, or perhaps she
is thinking of something that happened afterwards."
Dolores was not so wide of the mark. It was recollection of the events
of the preceding night that had brought the burning blush to Myra's
cheeks, and the thought of the interpretation the old woman might have
put on what she had seen and heard.
"Just as well, perhaps, that she does not understand English, as she
was probably eavesdropping all the time," thought Myra.
She was amazed that she should have been able to sleep soundly after
her emotional ordeal, until she remembered that when at last Don Carlos
had desisted in his attempt to make her surrender herself voluntarily
and had left her, Madre Dolores had reappeared and insisted upon her
drinking something out of a glass. The "something" was a sweet and
pungent cordial, which probably contained some soporific drug.
When the mists of sleep cleared away completely from her mind, Myra
found it difficult to analyse her feelings, but her predominant emotion
was resentment against the man who had made love to her so lawlessly
and had almost imposed his will on her.
Mingled with her resentment was something akin to fear, the haunting
dread that her ordeal of the previous night might be a prelude to
something worse. The hot flush of shame stained her fair face again as
she realised she had been on the very verge of surrendering herself.
"I hate him! I hate him!" Myra told herself as she dressed. "I'll
kill myself rather than confess I love him, and let him gloat over his
conquest.... What should I do? Should I promise to marry him on
condition that he takes me back to-day, and then denounce him to the
authorities when we reach the Castle? That would be something like
treachery, but it was treachery on his part to kidnap me while I was
his guest.... I shall wait and see how he behaves before deciding."