"This way?" questioned the high voice. "It is the longest way, cousin, so you said this morning."
"Yes," was Beltran's answer. How plainly she heard it as the breeze blew toward the casa. "The longest way to others, but—" He bent his head and spoke lower. One had to imagine the rest. Agueda closed the shutter and threw herself upon the bed, as if she could as easily forget the picture as she could shut out the shrill voice of Felisa.
The day passed, as such days do, like an eternity. At noon-time a stranger rode down the hill toward the casa. He brought a letter for Don Beltran.
"The Señor is up in the woods," said Agueda. "I will give it to him when he returns."
"It is from the Señor Silencio. He hopes that the Señor will read it at once. The message admits of no delay."
"Do you know the palm grove up on the far hill, on the other side of the grand camino?"
"I think that I might find it," said Andres, for it was he, "but I have matters of importance at home. My little boy—El Rey—"
Andres turned away his head. Stupid Andres! Only one thing could make him turn away his head.
"Are you, then, the father of that little El Rey?"
Andres nodded.