A little apart, and softly swaying in her hammock of scarlet and gold, one foot lightly touching the ground, half reclines the small, undulating figure of Murella Gonzales.
The ancient blood of Castile had never been suffered by the Gonzales family to mingle, with the sanction of the church, with ignobler currents. The late Señor Don Pedro, although only possessed of the estate of a prosperous Mexican cattle rancher, was yet a Hidalgo of Hidalgoes, who could have covered the walls of his casa with his quarterings. As for his wife, was she not an Alvarado? and—Santa Maria!—what more would you have in the way of blood? Certainly, from her arched instep to her wealth of blue-black hair, the Señorita Murella was a wondrously beautiful maiden.
“Murella,” spoke the sick man, turning his emaciated face toward the girl, “during the early days of my illness, I gave you a letter to mail, do you remember?”
“Si, señor.”
“Do you remember how many days ago, Murella?”
“Si, señor, seventeen day,” and the small ears deepened red behind the creamy oval face.
“Did you give Jose the letter to post?”
“Si, señor.”
“You are very kind, señorita, and I thank you.”
The girl glanced swiftly across the court at an open door wherein stood the madroña, the customary shawl of black Spanish lace drawn tightly across her mouth, leaving two shining black eyes fixed steadily upon her.