The American nodded and shoved the torn pages into a pocket of his coat.
"And my father?" exclaimed Felicidad. Perhaps to her, as had happened to Quesada himself, there was something poignantly reminiscent in this talk of tearing pages from one of the rare old books of the hidalgo doctor.
"He is still away," answered Quesada vaguely.
The American looked up sharply from uncorking one of the cobwebbed bottles of wine.
"You left word?"
Quesada nodded constrainedly, as if against his will. He could not say Don Jaime must soon follow him up the mountains. He could not look at the girl. He feared overwhelmingly for Felicidad, once her father should arrive. He was afraid lest his Moorish eyes might betray him.
Carson mixed a narcotic of the wine and a pinch of opium, and proffered it to the girl.
"It will relieve internal distress," he explained, "and induce strength-building sleep."
They came out into the open—the bandolero and the American.
"How many dead?" queried the former.