“Sardiola!”
“Señorita!” responded the Biscayan, showing no less joy, cordiality, and surprise than Lucía had done. “And I did not recognize you! How stupid of me! But one sees so many travelers at that blessed station, meeting them there when they arrive, and taking them there when they are going away, that it is not to be wondered at.”
And after looking at Lucía for a few moments longer, he added:
“But the truth is, too, that you yourself are greatly changed. Why, you don’t look like the same person as when Señorito Ignacio was with you——”
At the sound of this name, so long unheard by her, Lucía turned as red as a cherry, and dropping her eyes, she murmured:
“We will go at once to our rooms. Come, Pilar. Here, put your arm around my neck—now the other around Sardiola’s—don’t be afraid to lean; there! Shall we carry you in the queen’s chair?”
And the Biscayan and her valorous friend, crossing hands, raised the sick girl gently in the improvised throne, on which she sank like an inert mass, letting her head fall on Lucía’s shoulder. In this way they went up-stairs to the entresol, where Sardiola showed the two women into a large and airy room, containing the customary marble mantle-piece, the immense beds with hangings, the moquette carpet, somewhat soiled and worn in places, the wash-stand and the traditional clothes-rack. The windows of the room looked out into a small garden, in the center of which was a light kiosk constructed of wood and glass, which served as a bath-house. They placed Pilar in an arm-chair and Sardiola stood waiting for further orders. His eyes, dark and brilliant as those of a Newfoundland pup, were fixed on Lucía with a submissive and affectionate look truly canine. She, on her side, had to bite her lips to keep back the questions which crowded impatiently to them. Sardiola, divining her thoughts with the loyal instinct of the domestic animal, anticipated her words.
“If the ladies should need anything,” he said hesitatingly, as if fearing to seem intrusive, “let them call upon me at any time. If I am at the station, Juanilla will come; she is the chambermaid of this floor—an obliging girl, and quick as lightning. But if ever I can be of any service—well, it would delight me greatly; it is enough for me to have seen the Señorita with Señorito Ignacio——”
And as Lucía remained silent, questioning only with the mute and ardent language of the eyes, the Biscayan continued:
“Because—did the Señorita not know? Well it was the Señorito himself who got me this place. As the Alavese took Juanilla, who is a cousin of mine, with her and it made me, well—sad, to see those hills which no one but us country lads and the wild beasts had, with God’s help, ever climbed before, overrun by government troops, and, in short, as I was dying of sadness in that station, I wrote to the Señorito—his mother, may her soul rest in glory, was still living—and he recommended me to the Alavesa, and here I am at your service, living in clover.”