Who had come for me—my mother? That was my first thought, but a moment's reflection showed that it was unlikely. Had there been anything wrong at home, she would have sent José on a swift horse. The answer to my question came as I stood on the flight of steps leading to the hall. The crowd of people had dispersed, and only a solitary carriage with its attendants stood at the door. Recognizing the Montilla livery in an instant, I ran down the steps with a beating heart.
The carriage door was open, and the light from the hall fell full on the white face of Rosa.
"What has happened?" I cried. "Why do you look so frightened? Tell me, quick!"
Her only answer was to bid me step inside. The footman sprang to his place, the coachman gathered up the reins, the carriage turned with a swing, and almost before I realized it we were off at a gallop. The girl's face was hidden now in darkness, but I had seen it for a moment, and could not forget it. She was white and scared; her cheeks were tear-stained, and her eyes full of apprehension and grief.
Some terrible disaster had happened, but I could not learn what it was. To all my questions she replied, "Home! home!" and ordered the coachman to drive faster. Then she burst into a fit of crying, uttering incoherent words, of which I could make nothing.
"Is it your father, Rosa?" I asked. "Has anything happened to him?" At which she cried still more, upbraiding me for I knew not what.
The gates of the hacienda were wide open. We passed through at a gallop, and the trembling, foam-covered horses drew up at the front door. As soon as the carriage came to a standstill, I jumped out and assisted Rosa to alight. All the servants seemed to have gathered in the hall. Their faces were white, their eyes wild with dread; some of them still shivered. Evidently a great calamity had occurred. What was it?
Looking around, I noted the absence of Don Felipe. That gave me a clue to the nature of the disaster. Perhaps he lay dead in his room; perhaps the government, suspecting him of treachery, had torn him away. I did not hit on the exact truth, but my conjectures went very near it.
Rosa's wild fit had passed; she was no longer a weeping girl, but an imperious mistress. Her tears were dried; she had banished her fear. There was a light of scorn and command in her eyes.
"Away, cowards!" she cried. "Do you call yourselves men, and would not try to save your master? Begone!" and she stamped her foot in passion.