Now Doña Catalina came running to the veranda, for she had been listening to the conversation just inside the door. Her face was white, but there was a look of pride in it. She feared Don Carlos might make an attack on the soldier, and she feared he would be wounded or slain if he did, and knew that at least it could only double the charge held against him.
"You have heard?" Don Carlos asked.
"I have heard, my husband. It is but more persecution. I am too proud to argue the point with these common soldiers, who are but doing as they have been commanded. A Pulido can be a Pulido, my husband, even in a foul carcel."
"But the shame of it!" Don Carlos cried. "What does it all mean? Where will it end? And our daughter will be here alone with the servants. We have no relatives, no friends—"
"Your daughter is Señorita Lolita Pulido?" the sergeant asked. "Then do not grieve, señor, for you will not be separated. I have an order for the arrest of your daughter, also."
"The charge?"
"The same, señor."
"And you would take her—"
"To carcel!"
"An innocent, high-born, gentle girl?"