"I do not think that I shall comfort her," said Agueda. She glanced at the refuge behind the chimney, and then back at Beltran. "It was one long year ago," she said.
He turned away. "Come, Felisa," he said. "There is shelter from this wind behind the old chiminea."
He guided her along the slight slope of the roof. The wind was rising higher with every moment. It howled down from the hills; it bent and slashed at the treetops; it caught Felisa's filmy gauzes and whirled them upward and about her head.
Beltran half turned to Agueda.
"Give me the cloak," he said. He took it from her and enveloped Felisa in it, then led her to the safe shelter of the broad old chimney. Behind it was a figure upon his knees. It was Don Noé. He was praying with the fervour of the death-bed repenter.
Felisa, with a return of her flippant manner, laughed shrilly.
"The truly pious are also unselfish, papa. Give us a little shelter from this searching wind."
"Oh, do not! Do not! If I move, I shall fall! You will push me off!" and Don Noé continued petitioning Heaven in his own behalf.
Agueda was left standing in the centre of the roof. Palandrez and Eduardo Juan, who had followed the Señores to this their only refuge, were lying flat upon their faces. They held a lantern between them—a doubtful blessing, in that it illumined with faint ray the gloom and horror below, but it told so little that the possibility seemed more dreadful than the reality was at the moment.
"Lay down, Seño'it' 'Gueda," called Eduardo Juan. "Lay yo' body down."