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The
lady
of
the
lazo
is
once
more
alone
in
the
glade
.
She
springs
out
of
her
saddle
;
dons
serapé
and
sombrero
;
and
is
again
the
beau-ideal
of
a
youthful
hidalgo
.
She
remounts
slowly
,
mechanically
--
as
if
her
thoughts
do
not
company
the
action
.
Languidly
she
lifts
her
limb
over
the
horse
.
The
pretty
foot
is
for
a
second
or
two
poised
in
the
air
.
Her
ankle
,
escaping
from
the
skirt
of
her
enagua
,
displays
a
tournure
to
have
crazed
Praxiteles
.
As
it
descends
on
the
opposite
side
of
the
horse
,
a
cloud
seems
to
overshadow
the
sun
.
Simon
Stylites
could
scarce
have
closed
his
eyes
on
the
spectacle
.
But
there
is
no
spectator
of
this
interesting
episode
;
not
even
the
wretched
José
;
who
,
the
moment
after
,
comes
skulking
into
the
glade
.
He
is
questioned
,
without
circumlocution
,
upon
the
subject
of
the
strayed
letter
.
"
What
have
you
done
with
it
,
sirrah
?
"
"
Delivered
it
,
my
lady
.
"
"
To
whom
?
"
"
I
left
it
at
--
at
--
the
posada
,
"
he
replies
,
stammering
and
turning
pale
.
"
Don
Mauricio
had
gone
out
.
"
