Всадник без головы

Chapter 57

           Sowl!whataquareyoungchapheis,widthemtoinymowstacksloikethedownuponatwodays’goslin’!OLard!Lukathislittlefut!BeJaysus,he’sawoman!"

           WhiletheIrishmanwasmakingtheseobservations—partlyinthought,partlyinmutteredspeech—theequestrianadvancedapaceortwo,andagainpaused.

           Onanearerviewofhisvisitor,Phelimsawthathehadcorrectlyguessedthesex;thoughthemoustache,themannerofthemount,thehat,andserapé,mightforthemomenthavemisledakeenerintellectthanhisofConnemara.

           Itwasawoman.ItwasIsidora.

           ItwasthefirsttimethatPhelimhadseteyesontheMexicanmaiden—thefirstthathershadeverresteduponhim.Theywereequallyunknowntooneanother.

           Hehadspokenthetruth,whenhesaidthathercountenancedidnotdisplaypleasure.Onthecontrary,theexpressionuponitwassad—almostdisconsolate.

           Ithadshowndistrust,asshewasridingundertheshadowofthetrees.Insteadofbrighteningasshecameoutintotheopenground,thelookonlychangedtooneofmingledsurpriseanddisappointment.

           Neithercouldhavebeencausedbyhercomingwithinsightofthejacalé.Sheknewofitsexistence.Itwasthegoalofherjourney.Itmusthavebeenthesingularpersonagestandinginthedoorway.Hewasnotthemansheexpectedtoseethere.

           Indoubtsheadvancedtoaddresshim:

           "Imayhavemadeamistake?"saidshe,speakinginthebest"Americana"shecouldcommand."Pardonme,but—I—Ithought—thatDonMauriciolivedhere."

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