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It
was
a
woman
.
It
was
Isidora
.
It
was
the
first
time
that
Phelim
had
set
eyes
on
the
Mexican
maiden
--
the
first
that
hers
had
ever
rested
upon
him
.
They
were
equally
unknown
to
one
another
.
He
had
spoken
the
truth
,
when
he
said
that
her
countenance
did
not
display
pleasure
.
On
the
contrary
,
the
expression
upon
it
was
sad
--
almost
disconsolate
.
It
had
shown
distrust
,
as
she
was
riding
under
the
shadow
of
the
trees
.
Instead
of
brightening
as
she
came
out
into
the
open
ground
,
the
look
only
changed
to
one
of
mingled
surprise
and
disappointment
.
Neither
could
have
been
caused
by
her
coming
within
sight
of
the
jacalé
.
She
knew
of
its
existence
.
It
was
the
goal
of
her
journey
.
It
must
have
been
the
singular
personage
standing
in
the
doorway
.
He
was
not
the
man
she
expected
to
see
there
.
In
doubt
she
advanced
to
address
him
:
"
I
may
have
made
a
mistake
?
"
said
she
,
speaking
in
the
best
"
Americana
"
she
could
command
.
"
Pardon
me
,
but
--
I
--
I
thought
--
that
Don
Mauricio
lived
here
.
"
"
Dan
Marryshow
,
yez
say
?
Trath
,
no
.
Thare
's
nobody
av
that
name
lives
heeur
.
Dan
Marryshow
?
Thare
was
a
man
they
called
Marrish
had
a
dwillin
'
not
far
out
av
Ballyballagh
.
I
remimber
the
chap
will
,
bekase
he
chated
me
wanst
in
a
horse
thrade
.
But
his
name
was
n't
Dan
.
No
;
it
was
Pat
.
Pat
Marrish
was
the
name
--
divil
burn
him
for
a
desaver
!
"
"
Don
Mauricio
--
Mor-rees
--
Mor-ees
.
"
"
Oh
!
Maurice
!
Maybe
ye
'd
be
after
spakin
'
av
the
masther
--
Misther
Gerrald
!
"
