Finally my thoughts, which had been roaming around in a wild, uncertain
manner, like rooks "blown about the windy skies," settled quietly down
to the consideration of that beautiful anomaly, that mystery of
mysteries, the white-faced Margarita. For how, in the name of heredity,
had she got there? Whence that pearly skin and lithesome form; the
proud, sweet mouth, the nose that Phidias might have taken for a model;
the clear, spiritual, sapphire eyes, and the wealth of silky hair,
that if unbound would cover her as with a garment of surpassing beauty?
With such a problem vexing my curious brain, what sleep could a
philosopher get?
When Batata saw me making preparations for departure, he warmly pressed
me to stay to breakfast. I consented at once, for, after all, the more
leisurely one does a thing the sooner will it be accomplished--especially
in the Banda Oriental. One breakfasts here at noon, so that I had plenty
of time to see, and renew my pleasure in seeing, pretty Margarita.
In the course of the morning we had a visitor; a traveller who arrived
on a tired horse, and who slightly knew my host Batata, having, I was
told, called at the house on former occasions. Marcos Marco was his
name; a tall, sallow-faced individual about fifty years old, slightly
grey, very dirty, and wearing threadbare gaucho garments. He had a
slouching gait and manner, and a patient, waiting, hungry animal
expression of face.
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