“Yes, caballero; why not?” she returned in a voice even more significant of sorrow than her countenance.
I thanked her, and waited for her to lead the way; but she still remained standing before me with eyes cast down, and a hesitating, troubled look on her face.
“Señora,” I began, “if a stranger's presence in the house would be inconvenient—”
“No, no, señor, it is not that,” she interrupted quickly. Then, sinking her voice almost to a whisper, she said: “Tell me, señor, have you come from the department of Florida? Have you—have you been at San Paulo?”
I hesitated a little, then answered that I had.
“On which side?” she asked quickly, with a strange eagerness in her voice.
“Ah, señora,” I returned, “why do you ask me, only a poor traveller who comes for a night's shelter, such a question—”
“Why? Perhaps for your good, señor. Remember, women are not like men—implacable. A shelter you shall have, señor; but it is best that I should know.”
“You are right,” I returned, “forgive me for not answering you at once. I was with Santa Coloma—the rebel.”
She held out her hand to me, but, before I could take it, withdrew it and, covering her face, began to cry. Presently recovering herself and turning towards the house, she asked me to follow.