“Yes,” I replied; “so is his rider. Can you tell me who lives in that estancia?”
“My master,” he returned laconically.
“Is he a good-hearted man—one who will give shelter to a stranger?” I asked.
He took a very long time to answer me, then said:
“He has nothing to say about such matters.”
“An invalid?” I remarked.
Another long pause; then he shook his head and tapped his forehead significantly; after which he resumed his mermaid task.
“Demented?” said I.
He elevated an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.
After a long silence, for I was anxious not to irritate him with too much questioning, I ventured to remark:
“Well, they will not set the dogs on me, will they?”
He grinned, and said that it was an establishment without dogs.
I paid him for his information with a cigarette, which he took very readily, and seemed to think smoking a pleasant relief after his disentangling labours.
“An estancia without dogs, and where the master has nothing to say—that sounds strange,” I remarked tentatively, but he puffed on in silence.
“What is the name of the house?” I said, after remounting my horse.
“It is a house without a name,” he replied; and after this rather unsatisfactory interview I left him and slowly went on to the estancia.
On approaching the house I saw that there had formerly been a large plantation behind it, of which only a few dead stumps now remained, the ditches that had enclosed them being now nearly obliterated. The place was ruinous and overgrown with weeds. Dismounting, I led my horse along a narrow path through a perfect wilderness of wild sunflowers, horehound, red-weed, and thorn-apple, up to some poplar trees where there had once been a gate, of which only two or three broken posts remained standing in the ground. From the old gate the path ran on, still through weeds, to the door of the house, which was partly of stone and partly of red brick, with a very steep, sloping, tiled roof. Beside the ruined gate, leaning against a post, with the hot afternoon sun shining on her uncovered head, stood a woman in a rusty-black dress. She was about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, and had an unutterably weary, desponding expression on her face, which was colourless as marble, except for the purple stains under her large, dark eyes. She did not move when I approached her, but raised her sorrowful eyes to my face, apparently feeling little interest in my arrival.
I took off my hat to salute her, and said:
“Señora, my horse is tired, and I am seeking for a resting place; can I have shelter under your roof?”
“Yes, caballero; why not?” she returned in a voice even more significant of sorrow than her countenance.
I thanked her, and waited for her to lead the way; but she still remained standing before me with eyes cast down, and a hesitating, troubled look on her face.
“Señora,” I began, “if a stranger’s presence in the house would be inconvenient—”
“No, no, señor, it is not that,” she interrupted quickly. Then, sinking her voice almost to a whisper, she said: “Tell me, señor, have you come from the department of Florida? Have you—have you been at San Paulo?”
I hesitated a little, then answered that I had.
“On which side?” she asked quickly, with a strange eagerness in her voice.
“Ah, señora,” I returned, “why do you ask me, only a poor traveller who comes for a night’s shelter, such a question—”
“Why? Perhaps for your good, señor. Remember, women are not like men—implacable. A shelter you shall have, señor; but it is best that I should know.”
“You are right,” I returned, “forgive me for not answering you at once. I was with Santa Coloma—the rebel.”
She held out her hand to me, but, before I could take it, withdrew it and, covering her face, began to cry. Presently recovering herself and turning towards the house, she asked me to follow.
Her gestures and tears had told me eloquently enough that she too belonged to the unhappy Blanco party.
“Have you, then, lost some relation in this fight, señora?” I asked.
“No, señor,” she replied; “but if our party had triumphed, perhaps deliverance would have come to me. Ah, no; I lost my relations long ago—all except my father. You shall know presently, when you see him, why our cruel enemies refrained from shedding his blood.”
By that time we had reached the house. There had once been a verandah to it, but this had long fallen away, leaving the walls, doors, and windows exposed to sun and rain. Lichen covered the stone walls, while, in the crevices and over the tiled roof, weeds and grass had flourished; but this vegetation had died with the summer heats and was now parched and yellow. She led me into a spacious room, so dimly lighted from the low door and one small window that it seemed quite dark to me coming from the bright sunlight. I stood for a few moments trying to accustom my eyes to the gloom, while she, advancing to the middle of the apartment, bent down and spoke to an aged man seated in a leather-bound easy-chair.
“Papa,” she said, “I have brought in a young man—a stranger who has asked for shelter under our roof. Welcome him, papa.”
Then she straightened herself, and, passing behind the chair, stood leaning on it, facing me.
“I wish you good day, señor,” I said, advancing with a little hesitation.
There before me sat a tall, bent old
