The young women had evidently changed dresses:
Maruja was wearing the costume of her maid; Faquita was closely
veiled and habited like her mistress; but it was characteristic
that, while Faquita appeared awkward and over-dressed in her
borrowed plumes, Maruja's short saya and trim bodice, with the
striped shawl that hid her fair head, looked infinitely more
coquettish and bewitching than on its legitimate owner.
They passed hurriedly down the long alley, and at its further end
turned at right angles to a small gate half hidden in the
shrubbery. It opened upon a venerable vineyard, that dated back to
the occupation of the padres, but was now given over to the chance
cultivation of peons and domestics. Its long, broken rows of low
vines, knotted and overgrown with age, reached to the thicketed
hillside of buckeye that marked the beginning of the canada. Here
Maruja parted from her maid, and, muffling the shawl more closely
round her head, hastily passed between the vine rows to a ruined
adobe building near the hillside. It was originally part of the
refectory of the old Mision, but had been more recently used as a
vinadero's cottage. As she neared it, her steps grew slower,
until, reaching its door, she hesitated, with her hand timidly on
the latch. The next moment she opened it gently; it was closed
quickly behind her, and, with a little stifled cry, she found
herself in the arms of Henry Guest.
It was only for an instant; the pleading of her white hands,
disengaged from his neck, where at first they had found themselves,
and uplifted before her face, touched him more than the petitioning
eyes or the sweet voiceless mouth, whose breath even was forgotten.
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