Juan thrust him aside, nearly knocking him down in his haste, and dashed breathless into his uncle's private room, on the right hand side of the patio.
Don Manuel was there, seated at a table, looking over some papers.
"Where is my brother?" asked Juan sternly and abruptly, searching his face with his keen dark eyes.
"Holy Saints defend us!" cried Don Manuel, nearly startled out of his ordinary decorum. "And what madness brings you here?"
"Where is my brother?" Juan repeated, in the same tone, and without moving a muscle.
"Be quiet--be reasonable, nephew Don Juan. Do not make a disturbance; it will be worse for all of us. We did all we could--"
"For Heaven's sake, señor, will you answer me?"
"Have patience. We did all we could for him, I was about to say; and more than we ought. The fault was his own, if he was suspected and taken--"
"Taken! Then I come too late." Sinking into the nearest seat, he covered his face with both hands, and groaned aloud.
Don Manuel Alvarez had never learned to reverence the sacredness of a great sorrow. "Rushing in" where such as he might well fear to tread, he presumed to offer consolation. "Come, then, nephew Don Juan," he said, "you know as well as I do that 'water that has run by will turn no mill,' and that 'there is no good in throwing the rope after the bucket.' No man can alter that which is past. All we can do is to avoid worse mischief in future."