The old man and I had not yet gone to bed when they entered the house.
She came in laughing.
"Is it not early, my angel?" he asked. "It is but little past midnight." She smiled.
"Yes, padre, it is early—but I—I thought I would return."
Late that night, as Henderson and I lay in bed—he telling me the story of the evening—we could hear the girl in the next room, sobbing, sobbing as if her heart would break. It made Henderson uneasy.
"I'd like to do something," he said. "The scoundrel! He ought to be whipped."
I grunted and tried to get to sleep, but it was useless. Fred was tossing restlessly, and the girl in the other room was still sobbing, sobbing. Suddenly there sounded a whistle, low but clear. The sobbing ceased. The whistle sounded again. We heard a quiet step and the noise of an opening window.
"O Carlos mio," she breathed in the mother tongue, "I knew you would come."
"Adela mia," he called softly, "my angel, I hoped you would be here and—and you are."
"You have been so long," she sighed.
"Henderson," I said, "if you have any decency, go to sleep."