Her voice called him out of his wonder, and while the fire leaped and crackled in defiance of the wind and rain without they talked of this and that, their trials and travail, absent thoughts, hopes; and in the telling of it they obtained surcease from the smart of past misunderstandings. Also there were confessions. Each told—she with a blush—how they had overlooked each other’s sleep in the shepherd’s hut. Because opportunity for such communion had been altogether lacking, they talked late. Their murmurs died with the last light of the fire.
CHAPTER XXVIII
At high noon two days thereafter Seyd and Francesca drew rein on the rim of the Barranca above San Nicolas.
During the moment that the horses rested their thoughts reverted to the last occasion when they had overlooked the great void, and if the thought of Sebastien brought a touch of sadness into the girl’s reflections it caused no bitterness. She turned with a low laugh when Seyd produced from an inner pocket the handkerchief he had picked up that day on the trail.
“It did,” she said, when he told how it seemed to drip tears. “I had cried all the way up the trail to the rim.”
After the usual nightly downpour the sun had come out, and under a flood of golden light the valley floor stood out in relief, with its wooded hills and hollows diminished to toy proportions by the awful depth. In the center the casa of San Nicolas sat like a gold cup in the wide green saucer of surrounding pastures. Beyond, the river lay, a band of fretted silver, splitting the valley; and, following its course upward, the girl’s eye paused at the yellow scar, high on the opposite wall, which marked Santa Gertrudis.
“My beacon on many a dark day.” She pointed.
“And that reminds me that it is in great danger of being extinguished,” Seyd answered. “Our first payment was due the day before yesterday. Unless Billy has returned in my absence with the money—and I haven’t the slightest hope—the property is forfeited to your uncle.”