With ludicrous alacrity the command is obeyed. Like a scared cat the discharged servitor rushes out of the glade; only too happy to hide himself, and his shame, under the shadows of the thorny thicket.
But a little while longer does Isidora remain upon the spot—her anger giving place to a profound chagrin. Not only has she been baffled from carrying out her design; but her heart’s secret is now in the keeping of traitors!
Once more she heads her horse homeward. She arrives in time to be present at a singular spectacle. The people—peons, vaqueros, and employés of every kind—are hurrying to and fro, from field to corral, from corral to courtyard one and all giving tongue to terrified ejaculations. The men are on their feet arming in confused haste; the woman on their knees, praying pitifully to heaven—through the intercession of a score of those saints, profusely furnished by the Mexican hierarchy to suit all times and occasions.
“What is causing the commotion?”
This is the question asked by Isidora.
The mayor-domo—who chances to be the first to present himself—is the individual thus interrogated.
A man has been murdered somewhere out upon the prairie.
The victim is one of the new people who have lately taken possession of Caso del Corvo—the son of the American haciendado himself.
Indians are reported to have done the deed.
Indians! In this word is the key to the excitement among Don Silvio’s servitors.