“You––have!”
“And it’s no more a ‘ghost’ than I am.”
“What do you mean?” he demanded, hastily; ashamed of himself for half regretting that the supernatural view of the matter might not be the right one. “It isn’t? Well, what is it, then?”
“It’s Antonio Bernal and his horse, Nero.”
“Huh! How do you fetch that? When both of them are black as my hat.”
Her last, lingering uneasiness banished by his presence and the sound of her own words, with firmer conviction she declared to him and the others who had now gathered about her:
“I ‘fetch it’ fast enough. This was the way dear old Pedro used to ride; and this is the way your 172 ‘spook’ sat his horse,” she announced, so vividly mimicking both men that all who had known them recognized the likeness, and Ephraim exclaimed:
“That’s them to a t-i-o-n-tion! Can seem to see ’em right here before me. Well––what next?”
“Pedro wore his blanket like a king. Antonio has covered his head with that white thing, and even so wasn’t half Pedro’s height. I shall not soon forget that splendid Old Century, the last time I saw him ride away, that night. A hundred years old, yet as straight in his saddle as a rod.”
“Antonio Bernal was a magnificent horseman, darling,” suggested Mrs. Trent, from the chair into which she had sunk, as if weakened by the series of startling events which had befallen her home.