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Ysabel envied her bitterly. Not because the Doña Modeste's skin was whiter than her own, for it could not be, nor her eyes greener, for they were not; but because her jewels were richer than Pio Pico's, and upon all grand occasions a string of wonderful pearls gleamed in her storm-black hair.
Overhead the gale tore ragged gaps among the fire-shadowed trees, unshrouding a storm-black sky. Fearlessly the old wild love of storm and wind singing powerfully in her heart the girl rose from the fire and faced the tempest. Rex pressed fearfully beside her, whining. Off there somewhere in the wind and darkness a dog had barked.
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