"Who, Escobeda? Yes, child. He sent me a letter under a flag of truce, as it were. The letter was written at the government town."
"And he sent it—"
"Back by the last steamer, Raquel. His people are not allowed to enter our home enclosure, as you know. I allowed one of the peons to take the letter. He brought it to the trocha. Any one can come there. It is public land."
Raquel dropped the sugar; it rolled away.
"Gil, Gil!" she said, "you terrify me. What shall we do?" She arose and went close to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. "Escobeda! with his cruel ways, and more cruel followers—"
"He is Spanish."
"So are we, Gil, we are Spanish, too."
"Yes, child, with the leaven of the west intermingled in our veins, its customs, and its manners."
"Gil, dearest, I can never tell you what I suffered in that house. What fear! What overpowering dread! Whenever one of those lawless men so much as looked at me I trembled for the moment to come. And no one knows, Gil, what would have hap—happened unless he—had been reserving—me for—for a fate—worse than—" Her face was dyed with shame; she broke off, and threw herself upon her husband's breast. Her words became incoherent in a flood of tears.