A heart-break in itself—that song.
At the same time, another voice from the patio—quavery tones of the old señora offering the sentry a glass of wine. Was she trying to hold him at the far end of his post? Now in the opposite doorway, tipping a little weakly, hatless, without coat, but fully booted, Bart Leadley showed himself, a cool laugh on the dark face. Elbert darting a glance down the corridor, saw the back of the rurale’s head. He thrust out his hand to steady Bart across the corridor.
‘... Era la que me miraba
Diciendo adios—’
They had crossed the empty room; Elbert outside the window, was helping Bart through—the rurale still held to the patio-end of the corridor by the señora—or was it by the song? Even in the fierce drum of his excitement, words of old Bob Leadley flashed to Elbert’s mind: ‘... like the Virgin speaking to them.’ Yes, he could understand being held by that song; a wonder above everything, that Bart could leave at all.
‘Qui es mir persona
Cuentale tus amores—’
They had crossed the grounds to Mamie’s tether; Bart’s left ankle was in his hand for a lift. He swung up behind on the spacious saddle-tree; Mamie darting off in the dark toward high country with her double burden. Hauntingly from behind:
‘Me la han matado
Me la han matado—’