When he saw that the window had closed upon the señora, the gaucho went down the steps. On reaching the street he stopped and looked back.
“Two, instead of one,” Sebastiana thought she heard him say. And as he spoke he looked like a hungry wolf licking his chops.
But still Sebastiana doubted having heard what had actually been said, and she retired to her dingy bed in her hut in the corral, somewhat disappointed by the scanty results of her eaves-dropping.
The only memory of what she had overheard that claimed her attention to the point of keeping her awake, was that of the phrases concerning “Celinda” and “Flor de Rio Negro”; but what possible reason could there be for these two people to talk about her niña?
Robledo also spent a bad night. Worn out by his conflicting emotions the marqués had finally accepted his friend’s invitation, and his host had put him in the same room that Torre Bianca had occupied when he and his wife arrived at La Presa.
Twice that night Robledo woke up to find that he was straining to hear the sounds coming from the next room. Muttered words and groans came through the thin walls....
“Federico, do you want something?”
In a weak, humble voice came Torre Bianca’s reply. From the comparative silence that followed it seemed that he was making not altogether unsuccessful attempts to be quiet.
A third time Robledo woke, but this time the bars of his window were outlined against the light sky of early morning. A sharp noise had broken into his slumber, making him start up in bed.
When he came out into the living-room, he found Watson leaning down over a chair, fastening on his spurs. It was the noise made by this chair falling over a few moments before which had aroused him. When he saw his young partner, Robledo exclaimed cheerfully, “Up so early?... And you got in pretty late last night too....”