Rotil, still frowning at her, waved his hand to Chappo and Fidelio.
“Take him away,” he said, “and wait beyond.”
The shuffling movement and clank of chains was heard, but she did not turn her head. Instead she moved past Rotil, lifted a candle, and went towards the shrine at the end of the room.
A table was there with a scarf across it, and back of the table three steps leading up to a little platform on which were ranged two or three mediocre statues of saints, once brilliant with blue and scarlet and tinsel, but tarnished and dim from the years.
In the center was a painting, also dark and dim in which only a halo was still discernible in the light of the candle, but the features of the saint pictured there were shadowed and elusive.
For a moment she knelt on the lower step and bent her head because of those remnants of a faith which was all she knew of earthly hope,––and then she started to mount the steps.
“The curse of God shrivel you!” muttered Perez in cold fury––“come down from there!”
Without heed to the threat, she moved the little statues to right or left, and then lifted her hand, resting it on the wooden frame of the painting.
“Call the Americano,” she said without turning. “You will need a man, but not a man of Altar. Another day may come when you, Ramon, may have need of this house for hiding!”
Rotil strode to the door and motioned Kit to enter, then he closed both doors and gave no heed to Perez, crouched there like a chained coyote in a trap.