Marina, who had ceased to sob, and now lay quietly beneath the warm rabbit-hair blanket that the old woman had spread over her, listened to this conversation. Who could these people be? They did not talk like enemies bearing her to the altar of sacrifice. At any rate, a question could do no harm.
"Whither are you taking me?" she asked.
"Whither you would go," replied the gentle voice of the old woman.
"I would go to my friends. To Huetzin, and Sandoval, and Malinche, and the daughters of the king, who are captives."
"Where are they?"
"I know not, but I fear me they are dead. Who are you? You are not Aztecs."
"We are Tlascalans, and friends of the son of Tlahuicol, whom we seek," was the proud answer.
"I thought you were Tlascalans from your speech!" cried the girl, joyfully. "As such you must be my friends, and as friends of Huetzin you must be doubly my friends."
"Is he thy brother?" queried the old man, remembering that Huetzin had spoken of a sister.
"No."