In vain she tried to
lift them, with her old supreme power of fascination. If she had
ever blushed, she felt she would have done so now. She knew that
her face must betray her consciousness; and at last she--Maruja,
the self-poised and all-sufficient goddess--actually turned, in
half-hysterical and girlish bashfulness, to Carroll for relief in
an affected and exaggerated absorption of his attentions. She
scarcely knew that the clergyman had finished speaking, when
Raymond approached them softly from behind. "Pray don't believe,"
he said, appealingly, "that all the human virtues are about to be
buried--I should say sown--in that wheatfield. A few will still
survive, and creep about above the Doctor's grave. Listen to a
story just told me, and disbelieve--if you dare--in human
gratitude. Do you see that picturesque young ruffian over there?"
Maruja did not lift her eyes. She felt herself breathlessly
hanging on the speaker's next words.
"Why, that's the young man of the fonda, who picked up your fan,"
said Carroll, "isn't it?"
"Perhaps," said Maruja, indifferently. She would have given worlds
to have been able to turn coldly and stare at him at that moment
with the others, but she dared not. She contented herself with
softly brushing some dust from Captain Carroll's arm with her fan
and a feminine suggestion of tender care which thrilled that
gentleman.
"Well," continued Raymond, "that Robert Macaire over yonder came
here some three or four days ago as a tramp, in want of everything
but honest labor.
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