Walthew hesitated. There was no obvious reason why he should distrust the fellow, but he imagined that he had been watching for somebody coming down the road. The mule, however, was worn out, and he did not think he had much chance of escaping if treachery was intended.
"Very well," he said, dismounting, and when another man came up, he stumbled after the first into the passage.
"You have ridden far, señor, and will enjoy a rest," his guide remarked. "One does not lose time by stopping for food on a long journey."
Walthew felt more suspicious. They were now near a lamp that hung in the arch, and although his companion was dressed like a peon his voice suggested some education. The feeling that his arrival had been expected was stronger, but it was too late to turn back and he went on, surreptitiously making sure that his automatic pistol was loose. He was taken across the patio, up an outside staircase, and along a balcony, where his guide opened a door.
"The house is at your disposal," he said with Spanish politeness, bowing to Walthew to enter.
The door was closed sharply and Walthew wondered if he had been trapped as he cast a quick glance about. The room was large, badly lighted, and scantily furnished. Two of its windows were open, but he remembered that they must be some distance from the ground. There seemed, however, to be no reason for alarm. At the far end of the room a table was laid for supper, and a girl and a priest sat near it. They rose as he came forward.
Walthew gasped.
"Blanca!"
The girl seemed equally astonished.
"Señor Walthew!" she exclaimed, and her tone indicated both perplexity and concern. Walthew's clothes were gray with dust, his pose was slack with fatigue, and a dirty bandage covered his forehead.