"And he would curse my mother, would the Señor! And my little Antonio, who lies buried on the hill yonder."
"A light!" he shouted, "a light! she-devil, a light, I say!"
"May the Señor see no light till he sees the flames of hell," answered Guillermina. "The Señor must pardon me, but that is my respectful wish."
She smoothed the innocent-looking carpet in place, replaced the chairs, and went out, locking the door after her.
"Let us hope," said she quietly, "that my muchacho has barred the door at the further end of the passage." Looking for a wide crack, she found it, and dropped the key through it.
This is why the disused passage is always called Escobeda's Walk.
Sometimes, when Don Gil and the little Señora sit and sip the straw-coloured tea at five o'clock of an afternoon, the teapot, grown more battered and dingy, the lid fitting less securely than of yore, the Señora sets down her cup, and taking little Raquel upon her knee, holds her close to her heart, and says:
"Do you hear that knocking, Gil? There is certainly a rapping on the counting-house floor."
"I hear nothing," answers Silencio, as he gives a large lump of sugar to the grandson of the brown lizard. And for that matter, there is an ancient proverb which says that "None are so deaf as those who will not hear."