The door flew open, and on the threshold stood the young guerilla. It was the form of the Antinuous, without his effeminacy—it was the head of the conquering Bacchus, without the sensuality. A specimen more perfect of young manhood never walked the earth.
"Madre de Dios, who is this?" he asked.
"Brother! Juan! brother!" exclaimed Marguerita, seizing him in her arms, and striving to embrace him.
"What have you done, mad girl? Who is this, I say, who is this, Marguerita?"
"A suppliant, a fugitive, a friend, a sister, a sister of the Partisan—of Pedro, my brother, Pedro el Salvador."
"An American," he said, slowly, his brow gradually uniting into a black frown, as he uttered the word, and his eye growing lurid with a concentrated fire, then laying his hand on the hilt of his stiletto, he murmured through his set teeth, "She must die."
"Never, no! for your life! for your soul! for the name of God! for the most holy virgin! no, brother, no; not while I live! He brought her here. He that preserved your life and my honour. He asked me to protect her! and I swore by my mother's soul; and now I swear it!"
"Fool!" he almost shouted in his rage, as he thrust her aside violently, "Carrera will be here within ten minutes, and all our lives are forfeit by your treason."
"We can conceal her. In the niche, you know, in the niche. Sanchez and Estefania and Francisco need but a hint to make them mute as statues. We can conceal her, brother, and be saved."
"He knows that they came hither. We have traced their hoof-tracks to the very gate. A wounded soldier saw them leave their hiding-place, and we met Carrera on their track. I know not how we failed to meet them."