She stepped forward to the parapet that overlooked the patio.
“Vicenza!—Vicenza!”
“Aqui, Señorita,” answered a voice from the interior of the house.
“Ven aca!—Ven aca!” (Come hither.)
“Si, Señorita.”
“Anda! Anda!” (Quickly.)
A girl, in short bright-coloured nagua, and white chemisette without sleeves, came out into the patio, and climbed up the escalera that led to the roof.
She was a mestiza, or half-blood, of Indian and Spanish mixture, as her brownish-white skin testified. She was not ill-looking; but there was an expression upon her countenance that precluded the idea of either virtue, honesty, or amiability. It was a mixed expression of malice and cunning. Her manner, too, was bold and offensive, like that of one who had been guilty of some known crime, and had become reckless. It was only of late she had assumed that tone, and her mistress had observed it among other changes.
“Qué quiere V., Señorita?” (What want you, my lady?)
“Vicenza, I have lost a small piece of paper. It was folded in an oblong shape—not like a letter, but this—”