Was there anything requiring eyes which Lettice could not read? "Manuel de la Cruz," she spelt out.
"Cruz," Gardiner corrected her, giving to the "z" its soft Castilian lisp. "Now I do not in the least believe the convent, and consequently this farm, was dedicated to the Holy Cross. I believe it was named for its founder. But the odd part of the story is that it's my name as well. My mother was half Spanish—born Florentina de la Cruz; and I'm called after her: Henry de la Cruz Gardiner."
"Well, that is queer," said Lettice, for once with conviction.
"Isn't it? There aren't so many traces left of the Spanish occupation; I call it something of a coincidence that that should have survived, and that I should come on it—should actually take over and settle down in the house built by my namesake. Of course it's a not uncommon name in Spain, but it does set one thinking. And see here, too." He dragged her across to the tower. The gateway was half ruinous; one of the jambs had fallen, bringing some of the stones along with it, and others seemed ready to follow. "No, this isn't war's alarms, though as a matter of fact I have found a cannon ball embedded in the barn. Jules backed the engine into it the other day. This lintel's all cock-eye, but you can still see the cross and initials—can you?—carved on the end here." He was tracing out the mark.
"Take care!" said Lettice suddenly.
She was too late. The stone above—perhaps he had brushed against it; at any rate, it settled down, quietly and inexorably, grinding his hand between itself and the block below. Lettice's arm sprang out; she could be quick on occasion, but he was quicker still. "No! keep off!" he cried out, instantly fending her off, shouldering her out of the way; and in the same breath he inserted the point of his stick into the crevice. A very slight leverage, and the upper stone tipped and fell to the ground, in a shower of dust and rubble. He drew away his hand and stepped back. "They ought to have that seen to, I'll warn madame," he said. "It's jolly dangerous, with those kids about."
"You've hurt yourself," said Lettice.
"Yes, I've done myself proud this time," he said, and coolly put his hand behind his back. "Don't look at it, it isn't pretty. I'll cut in and get some warm water out of madame, and do it up."
He turned and walked off to the house. Unfortunately, in turning he forgot that his hand was behind him, and Lettice saw it. It was dripping blood; he left his trail across the golden straw to the door. Lettice stayed where she was. She was not going where she was not wanted. She felt a little sick; not for the sight of blood, but in sympathy with him. She had seen him change color. Yet he was cool enough; she could hear his voice inside, answering madame's exclamation as lightly as ever. Presently he came out again, with a white-bandaged paw, and a face not much less pallid than the linen.
"Thanks so much for not fussing," he said. "I had a gay ten minutes with madame; I thought she was going to embrace me. Let's get on home now, do you mind? All this bobbery has taken the dickens of a time, and I've masses of things still to do before dinner."