Whose voice was that? Yes, yes—Mercedes', to be sure, his granddaughter's. She had gone to Nogales ... long ago.... Yet that was her voice. Had he come, then, to Paradise that her voice was pleading for him—pleading for the door to open?
"Mother—Father! It is I, Mercedes! Open quickly—It is Mercedes, do you hear? I want my child—Sebastianillo—my child—quick!"
The voice broke into short agonised cries, into sobs. The door rattled.
At the sound of this last the old man raised himself on his knees. His eyes fell again on the shining dollars all around him. His throat worked.
Suddenly terror broke out in beads on his forehead. Someone was shaking the door! Thieves were there trying the door: they were come to rob him!
He drew himself up slowly. As he did so the door ceased to rattle, and presently, somewhere near the windy edge of the ravine, a faint cry sounded.
But long after the door had ceased to rattle, old Gil Chaleco stared at it, fascinated. And long after the cry had died away it beat from side to side within the walls of his head, while he listened and life trickled from him, drop by drop.
"Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night." But he was listening for it: it would come again....
And it came—with a rough summons on the door, and, a moment later, with a thunderous blow. The old man stood up, knee-deep in dollars, lifting both arms to cover his head. As the door fell he seemed to bow himself toward it, toppled, and slid forward—still with his arms crooked—amid a rush of silver.