CHAPTER XIX.
It was a moonless night, and a haze of cloud obscured the stars. We passed silently under the vine-covered arbour, across the garden, to the gateway. Into the heavy lock Doña Orosia slipped a great key; it turned easily, the door swung open, and we stepped out. Locking it once more, my companion took my arm and hurried me along the dark, deserted street. We turned a corner, came upon an open square, and paused beside a huge palmetto that grew near the centre. I heard the crisp rustle of its leaves in the night wind, and I shivered with a nameless dread.
Then, through the darkness, two dim forms approached us. My heart beat quickly, and I drew the mantle closer round my face; but one of them proved to be the friar, the other, my dear, dear Barbara. I sprang to meet her with a quick cry; but Doña Orosia laid a hand upon my lips and hurried me on. Padre Felipe now led the way, and we followed him for some moments more until he paused before a low doorway and motioned us to enter.
"Señora," I whispered, "why do you come? I have no fear of the disease, but why should you needlessly expose yourself?"
"Little fool," she answered, pushing me gently on, "there is no fever, no contagion here."
Wondering still, I entered the narrow passage, and beyond it a dimly lighted room.
On the floor lay a long wooden stretcher covered with hide; at its foot and head, fixed each in a rude socket, were two candles, still unlighted. A brass pot with long chains, and a heap of dark cloth, lay upon the floor; there was also a rough table on which stood a bottle of water and a loaf of bread; otherwise, except for a dim lamp upon the wall, the room was empty. Doña Orosia looked around, with quick eyes taking in every detail; then she turned to Padre Felipe.
"Can you trust the bearers?"
He bowed his head.
"Then the only difficulty is this old woman. Better to leave her behind."