The old crone closed the door carefully after him, and then holding the candle near my face, she said:
"Counting all renegades, senor?"
"Lovers of Satan. By the Grace of God, Mother Calvarro," and I doffed my hat.
"By the Grace of God," she repeated, fervently. "And your name, senor?"
"Is my own, Mother. I would see the senorita at once," I said, putting a note of authority into my voice.
"She is broken by the ill-news that Juan brought. Truly a day of woe. The Holy Virgin save us and protect us all," and she raised her disengaged hand, sighed heavily, turned and shuffled slowly along the narrow bare-walled passage, pausing at a door. "Shall I tell her of your coming?"
"Better not," I replied, and as she opened the door, I entered, my heart beating quickly.
It was a low farmhouse room, very barely furnished; wooden chairs and a bare wooden table on which stood a candle that flickered feebly in the gust of air caused by the opening door.
Near the window and against the wall was a long wooden bench with arms, and on this, her head bowed on her hands which rested on one of the hard wooden arms, was Sarita, crouching in an attitude of deep despondency.
She did not lift her head at my entrance, thinking no doubt it was the woman of the house.