As before, the speakers are invisible, outside the room. But he can perceive that they are close to the door, and the first words heard admonish him of their design to enter.
“Now, Conchita! Go get the wine, and bring it along with you. The doctor left directions for it to be given him at this hour.”
“I have it here, senorita.”
“Vaya! you have forgotten the glass. You would not have him drink out of the bottle?”
“Ay Dios! and so I have,” responds Conchita, apparently gliding off to possess herself of the required article, with which she soon returns.
“Ish!” cautions the other voice; “if he be still asleep, we must not wake him. Don Prospero said that. Step lightly, muchacha!”
Hamersley is awake, with eyes wide open, and consciousness quite restored. But at this moment something—an instinct of dissembling—causes him to counterfeit sleep; and he lies still, with shut eyelids. He can hear the door turning upon its hinges of raw hide, then the soft rustle of robes, while he is sensible of that inexpressible something that denotes the gentle presence of woman.
“Yes, he is asleep,” says the first speaker, “and for the world we may not disturb him. The doctor was particular about that, and we must do exactly as he said. You know, Conchita, this gentleman has been in great danger. Thanks to the good Virgin, he’ll get over it. Don Prospero assures us he will.”
“What a pity if he should not! Oh, senorita, isn’t he—”
“Isn’t he what?”