“Does he know them?”
“He must know that they are poor, or he would not have asked charity for them.”
“He asked nothing,” said Tacita.
“Yet you gave.”
“It is true; he did ask and seemed sure of receiving. Why does he make a part of the journey with us?”
“He knows the way and the people. He will meet us when we cross the mountains.”
“I wonder if they are the mountains that my grandfather remembered!” thought Tacita, and asked no more. Some feeling that was scarcely fear, but rather a sense of coming fate, began to creep over her. She had entered upon a path from which there was no retreat, and something mysterious was stealing about her and closing her in.
“Dylar is here,” Elena said as they drove into the gardens of the Ritiro. “Shall we stop and speak to him? I want to tell him when we will leave Madrid. What shall I say?”
“We will leave to-morrow morning,” Tacita said, looking eagerly around. Already it seemed to her a wonderful thing to hear this man speak.
He was walking to and fro under the trees, and came to the side of their carriage immediately. He glanced at Tacita, and slowly bowed himself in something of an oriental fashion. One might have hesitated whether to compare his manner to that of a perfectly trained servant come to take orders, or to the confident reserve of a sovereign about to hear if his orders had been obeyed. “The signorina has decided to set out to-morrow morning,” Elena said to him. “We shall not stop anywhere.”