From the old gate the path ran on,
still through weeds, to the door of the house, which was partly of
stone and partly of red brick, with a very steep, sloping, tiled roof.
Beside the ruined gate, leaning against a post, with the hot afternoon
sun shining on her uncovered head, stood a woman in a rusty-black
dress. She was about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, and had an
unutterably weary, desponding expression on her face, which was
colourless as marble, except for the purple stains under her large,
dark eyes. She did not move when I approached her, but raised her
sorrowful eyes to my face, apparently feeling little interest in my
arrival.
I took off my hat to salute her, and said:
"Senora, my horse is tired, and I am seeking for a resting-place; can
I have shelter under your roof?"
"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.
"Senora," I began, "if a stranger's presence in the house would be
inconvenient--"
"No, no, senor, it is not that," she interrupted quickly. Then, sinking
her voice almost to a whisper, she said: "Tell me, senor, 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.
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