She hurried back to the middle of the room, and the señorita turned to look. The aperture was large enough, she knew at a glance. She could crawl through, jump to the ground, go up the slope, and reach the fringe of trees that she could see in the distance. Once more hope came to her.
“I must have some old clothes—ragged and dirty clothes,” she said. “I will leave some of these.”
The woman did not reply, but she hurried from the storeroom with a gleam of avarice in her eyes. She was more than willing to trade ragged garments for some of silk and satin.
Back she came, after a time, and the señorita pulled off her gown and put on the ragged one, shuddering as she did so, not because of the rags but because of the dirt. She streaked her face with dirt from the floor, and washed her hands in it, disarranged her hair, and threw a ragged shawl over her head.
“A woman does not wear a torn shawl, a ragged dress, and fine slippers at the same time,” Inez observed.
The señorita kicked off her slippers and thrust her feet into the filthy sandals the hag furnished her. She hurried to the window, the woman before her. But Inez grasped her by an arm and held her back.
“Not that way!” the woman gasped. “It is too late! That way is guarded!”
The heart of the señorita sank again. She scrambled to the top of the cask she had used before, and peered out. Within sight there were half a dozen men guarding that side of the camp against a possible surprise. If she got through the window they would see her, block her path up the slope and toward the trees, and investigate.
“Is there no way out?” the señorita cried in despair.
“There is only the front.”