Eight servants stood near them, their arms bound behind their backs.
These fifteen persons looked at one another gravely, their eyes
scarcely betraying the sentiments that filled their souls. The
sentinels, also motionless, watched them, but respected the sorrow of
those cruel enemies.
An expression of inquiry came upon the faces of all when Victor
appeared. He gave the order to unbind the prisoners, and went himself
to unfasten the cords that held Clara in her chair. She smiled sadly.
The officer could not help touching softly the arms of the young girl
as he looked with sad admiration at her beautiful hair and her supple
figure. She was a true Spaniard, having the Spanish complexion, the
Spanish eyes with their curved lashes, and their large pupils blacker
than a raven's wing.
"Have you succeeded?" she said, with one of those funereal smiles in
which something of girlhood lingers.
Victor could not keep himself from groaning. He looked in turn at the
three brothers, and then at Clara. One brother, the eldest, was thirty
years of age.
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