“The Señorita Ramona has Indian blood in her veins. The Señorita Ramona is alone. The Señora loves her not. Indian blood! Indian blood!” These, or something like them, would have been the words; but Alessandro did not put them in words. He only worked away on the rough posts for Señor Felipe's bedstead, hammered, fitted, stretched the raw-hide and made it tight and firm, driving every nail, striking every blow, with a bounding sense of exultant strength, as if there were suddenly all around him a new heaven and a new earth.
Now, when he heard Ramona say suddenly in her girlish, eager tone, “It must be; I never thought of it; I should like to try it,” these vague confused thoughts of the day, and the day's bounding sense of exultant strength, combined in a quick vision before Alessandro's eyes,—a vision of starry skies overhead, Ramona and himself together, looking up to them. But when he raised his head, all he said was, “There, Señorita! That is all firm, now. If Señor Felipe will let me lay him an this bed, he will sleep as he has not slept since he fell ill.”
Ramona ran eagerly into Felipe's room, “The bed is all ready on the veranda,” she exclaimed. “Shall Alessandro come in and carry you out?”
Felipe looked up, startled. The Señora turned on Ramona that expression of gentle, resigned displeasure, which always hurt the girl's sensitive nature far worse than anger. “I had not spoken to Felipe yet of the change, Ramona,” she said. “I supposed that Alessandro would have informed me when the bed was ready; I am sorry you came in so suddenly. Felipe is still very weak, you see.”
“What is it? What is it?” exclaimed Felipe, impatiently.
As soon as it was explained to him, he was like a child in his haste to be moved.
