The famished boy smacked his lips and asked:
“Weren’t those the very nicest bollos Marta ever made?”
“I guess so,” answered she with a little gasp; then hurried to add, lest she should betray that she had not tasted one; “Benoni thought so, too. There. He’s getting on his feet. Take care, good beastie! Don’t you step on Carlota!”
There was little danger of this, for he could see much better than they and he, evidently, felt it time to leave this prison house. He whinnied, shook himself, cautiously turned around, and began to pick his way past them. Afraid that he would leave them, the little girl begged:
“Don’t go without us, Noni! Wait! You mustn’t be faster than we. Hurry, brother! I’ll take hold of his tail, and you take hold of me, and he’ll lead us out that way. Come.”
“We mustn’t leave our things here. There’s the box. Maybe, after all, there is another cake left in it that you didn’t find. Besides our blankets and hats, if we didn’t lose them.”
“You must be quick then. He will go. He is determined. I’ll hold him back all I can, but—”
Then again sounded that strange creeping, and even Carlota heard it. So did Benoni. For he made a sudden movement forward, scraping his back as he did so, and began to climb the slope down which he had carried them to safety.
“That’s a funny noise! Guess there must be bats in here. Anyway it surely is growing lighter. Ouch! I keep stubbing my toes on sharp pointed stones or heaps of stuff. It looks as if it were all a white place. Maybe, it’s been whitewashed, same as Marta’s kitchen.”
At that, Carlos made his sister pause. From what he had been taught by his father he guessed what the “whiteness” meant: