They lived on the outskirts of a small village, just about fifty miles from the spot he started from, and as his tough little pony was fresh, Pedro expected to do the distance in seven or eight hours, with short rests.
He longed to see his parents, and looked forward to the meeting with joy.
He rode all day at a steady pace that covered a great deal of ground, and at night fetched up before the little door-yard fronting his home.
The peaceful-looking cottage was there, but no one came eagerly forth in answer to his blithe hail, and a strange misgiving made the blood grow cold and chill around the boy’s heart as he leaped from the back of his jaded steed.
He rushed up to the door.
Locked!
He shouted.
No sound came back for some time, and then a neighbor heard his voice and in a moment several forms came toward him in the darkness.
“It is Pedro!” they cried.
“Poor Pedro!” said one.