CHAPTER XIV.
ANOTHER CAMP.
They made but a brief halt at the ruined farm. The house was completely gutted; the widow of Don Annunzio had the clothes she stood in, and nothing beside. She stood quietly by while her husband's body was laid in the grave beside that of young Cerito; a shallow grave, hastily dug in what had lately been the garden. She listened with the same quiet face while good old Don Miguel, with faltering voice, recited a Latin prayer. She was a Methodist, he a fervent Catholic; but it mattered little at that moment.
By this time it was daylight. A small patch of bananas was found, that had escaped the destroying torch, and on these the party made a hasty meal; then they rode away, all save the negroes, who preferred to stay in the neighbourhood where their lives had been spent.
They rode slowly, in deference to Don Miguel's age and that of his pony. Rita, riding beside the good old man, listened to the recital of his terrors and anxieties from the time her flight was discovered to the present moment. These caused her real grief, and she begged again and again for the forgiveness which he assured her was wholly unnecessary. But when he described the hysterical rage of her stepmother, her eyes brightened, and the colour came back to her pale cheek. She had no doubt that Concepcion Montfort was sorry to lose her; the larger part of her father's fortune had been settled upon her, Rita, before his second marriage.
"The señora also has made diligent search for you, my child!" said Don Miguel. "She has offered ample rewards—"
"I know it!" said Rita. "Only yesterday—can it be that it was only yesterday?—Don Diego Moreno was here—there, I should say, at that peaceful home that is now a heap of ashes. These Spaniards!"
Had she seen Don Diego? the old man asked; and he seemed relieved when she answered in the negative.
"It is well; it is well!" he said. "He is a relative of the señora's, I am aware; but it would have been unsuitable, most unsuitable."
"What would have been unsuitable, Donito Miguelito?"