At first sight it looked more like the burrow of some wild animal. It was little more than a hole dug in the side of the clay bank. Some boughs and palm-leaves were wattled together to form a rustic porch, and under this porch three people were sitting, on the bare ground,—two women, one young, the other old, and a little child, evidently belonging to the young woman. They were clothed in a few rags; their cheeks were hollow with famine, their eyes burning with fever. The old woman was stirring a handful of meal into a pot of water; the others looked on with painful eagerness. Rita recoiled with a low cry of terror. She had heard of this; these were some of the unhappy peasants who had been driven from their farms. She had never seen anything like it before. This—this was not the play she had come to see.
The women looked up, and saw the two girls standing near. Instantly they began to cry out, in wailing voices. "Go! go away! there is nothing for you; nothing! we have not more than a mouthful for ourselves. Take yourselves away, and leave us in peace."
Rita came forward, the tears running down her cheeks. "Oh, poor things!" she cried. "Poor souls, I want nothing. I am not hungry! See!—I have brought food for you. Quick, Manuela, the bag—the biscuits, child! Give them to me! Here, thou little one, take this, and eat; there is plenty more!"
The famished child looked from the biscuit to the glowing face that bent over it. It made a feeble movement; then drew back in fear. The old woman still clamoured to the girls to go away; but the younger snatched the biscuit, and began feeding the child hastily, yet carefully. "Mother, be still!" she said, imperiously. "Hush that noise! do you not see this is no poor wretch like ourselves? This is a noble lady come from heaven to bring us help. Thanks, señorita!" With a quick, graceful movement, she lifted the hem of Rita's dress and pressed it to her lips. "We were dying!" she said, simply. "It was the last morsel; we meant to give it to the little one, and some one might find it when we were dead, and keep the life in it."
"But, eat; eat!" cried Rita, filling the hands of both women with chocolate and biscuits. "It is dreadful, terrible! oh, I have heard of it, I have read of it, but I had not seen, I had not known. Oh, if my cousin Margaret were here, she would know what to do! Eat, my poor starving ones. You shall never be hungry again if I can help it."
The child pulled its mother's ragged gown.
"Is it an angel?" it asked, its mouth full of chocolate.
"Hear the innocent!" said the mother. "No, lamb, not yet an angel, only a noble lady on the road to heaven. See, señorita! he was pretty, while his cheeks were round and full. Still, his eyes are pretty, are they not?"
"They are lovely! he is a darling!" cried Rita; and she took the child in her arms, and bent over him to hide the tears. Was this truly Rita Montfort? Yes, the same Rita, only awake now, for the first time now in her pretty idle life. She felt of the little limbs. They were mere skin and bone; no sign of baby chubbiness, no curve or dimple. Indeed, she had come but just in time. "Listen!" she said, presently. "Where do you come from? where is your home?"
The old woman made a gesture as wide and vague as Rita's own of a few minutes before. "Our home, noble lady? the wilderness is our home to-day. Our little farm, our cottage, our patch of cane, all gone, all destroyed. Only the graves of our dead left."