“Your meals will be sent to you. When Señor José gets back, he’ll come to see you.”
“Good; give me the key.”
“Here it is. Adiós, and good luck.”
The innkeeper disappeared whence he had come. Quentin, following the example of a cat, went tearing across the tiles.
From that height he could see the city, caressed by the silver light of the moon. Through the silence of the night came the murmuring of the river. In the background, far above the roofs of the town, he could make out the dark shadow of Sierra Morena, with its white orchards bathed in the bluish light, its great bulk silhouetted against the sky, and veiled by a light mist.
Quentin reached the attic, pushed open the window, descended the stairs as he had been told, opened the door, lit a match, and had scarcely done so when he heard a shriek of terror. Quentin dropped the match in his fright. There was some one in the garret!
“Who’s there?” he asked.
“Oh, sir,” replied a cracked voice, “for God’s sake don’t harm me.”
When Quentin saw that he was being begged for help, he realized that there was no danger, so he lit another match, and with it, a lamp. By the light of this, he saw a woman sitting up in a bed, her head covered with curlpapers.
“Have no fear, Señora,” said Quentin; “I must have made a mistake and entered the wrong room.”