“Rojerio Rocha!” Señora Vallejo exclaimed.
He closed the door behind him, bowed before them, and advanced a step into the room.
“You have come to say that there is no hope?” the woman asked.
“I have come to say, first of all, señora, and you, señorita, that there is absolutely no danger for either of you, if you are obedient.”
“No danger? What mean you, Rojerio Rocha? No danger with that mob of howling savages in war paint, crowding the patio and overrunning the house?”
“They are not overrunning the house, señora, pardon me. None are in the house except chiefs and a few servants. Already they have the fires going, and a roast of beef is being prepared. You shall have food soon.”
“Are you an imbecile in truth?” the señora cried. “You trust such wretches? Do you not know that, if they do not slay us at once, they are but playing with us as a cat plays with a mouse before she kills it? Where are your brains, Rojerio Rocha? Is there to be no attempt at rescue? Give us at least a poniard, that we may protect ourselves or take our own lives to save honour! Where is Señor Lopez? Where are the troopers? Have they ridden for help?”
She stopped speaking, standing before him with her hands clutching at her breasts—fear-stricken, desperate, but angry above all.
“Señor Lopez and the four troopers,” he replied, “rode down into the cañon to make an investigation, disregarding my orders to the contrary. They are dead.”
“Dead?” Anita cried.