“Asleep, after tears, and a sad heart!” she replied. “Valencia thanks the saints that at last she weeps,––the beautiful sad one!”
“That is well; go you also to sleep. Your friends keep guard tonight.”
She made no reply, and he passed on along the corridor to his own rooms. The door was open, and he was about to strike a light when a hand touched his arm. He drew back, reaching for his gun.
“What the devil–––”
“Señor,” whispered Isidro, “make no light, and make your words in whispers.”
“All right. What’s on your mind?”
“The señora and the Deliverer. Know you not, señor, that she is sick with shame? It is so. No man has told him who the woman is he calls yours. All are afraid, señor. It is said that once Ramon Rotil was content to be a simple man with a wife of his own choosing, but luck was not his. It was the daughter of a priest in the hills, and José Perez took her!”
“Ah-h!” breathed Kit. “If it should be this one–––”
“It is so,––she went like a dead woman at his voice, but he does not know. How should he, when Don José has women beyond count? Señor, my Valencia promised Doña Jocasta you would save her from meeting the general. That promise was better than a sleeping drink of herbs to her. Now that the promise is made, how will you make it good?”
“Holy smoke––also incense––also the pipe!” muttered Kit in the dark. “If I live to get out of this muddle I’ll swear off all entangling alliances forevermore! Come into the kitchen where we can have a fire’s light. I can’t think in this blackness.”