[VII]
LA REINA DE LOS INDIOS
“Felicita, where is this Senor?”
“Ah, Dios mio! safe enough, in the sala. But for thee—nina Sa’pona, how scared I’ve been! And they called thee queen, thou who art our queen indeed, beautiful, brave one! But thou shouldst not do this—not for so ugly a senor—my beautiful nina!”
With the great door closed, and the noise from the peons growing fainter in the distance, the stern dignity of the Indian girl vanished before the simple talk of her old nurse. Queen of the Indians, as the peons called her, this girl might be—although why they called her so they would find it difficult to tell—but for the faithful creature, with her eager caresses and affectionate words, royalty, real or imaginary, scarcely counted.
“There you are, foolish Felicita, always scared at something! Danger? What danger? Only a greeting from those who are as fond of me as thou art. Now, to thy work. I must speak with this troublesome Yankee. Many a day it is since I have seen him here. And then—Felicita, I am dying of hunger.”
Shaking her head at her mistress’s lack of caution, the old nurse hobbled down the gloomy corridor and into the sunny patio, fragrant with jasmine and sweet rose, where two Indian girls, seated upon the flags surrounding the opening of a central cistern, were crushing corn in the primitive stone hand mills of their race.
Resuming something of her stateliness of mien, the youthful “Reina de los Indios” turned to the right along a passage-way leading off from the main corridor into the sala, or principal living room of the house. This was more scantily furnished than such apartments usually are in Bogota. All that it had was of the plainest—half a dozen cheap rocking chairs, a straight-backed cane settee, a tall pier-glass, ornamented at the top and sides with meaningless gilt stucco work, and a dark walnut cabinet, carved in elaborate hunting design, with massive spiral pillars supporting the heavily panelled sides and front—the only object in the room giving evidence either of taste or wealth. Even the tiled floors were bare, save for a few well worn petates (Indian mats) which failed to supply that feeling of comfort provided in this chilly climate by the thick woollen rugs and carpets generally in use.
Awaiting her entrance stood the Yankee whom she had rescued from the emboladores. Confronted by his ragged assailants he had shown an admirable coolness; in the presence of this young girl his manner lacked that air of confidence he had so readily assumed in the face of danger. He was ill at ease; his glance shifted from one object to another in the room, his sombrero was tightly clenched in his hand, he avoided the steady gaze of his rescuer. Yet there was in his attitude toward her an indefinable homage, due, perhaps, to the queenly rank that others accorded her, or else to the rare feminine loveliness, the subtle power of which few could escape.
“Senorita, you have done me a great service,” he said. “I was on my way to see you when I had that brush with the peons. That is my excuse for taking refuge in your house and exposing you to danger. Will you forgive me? Will you——”