tinued, “Alessandro! Is it you? Why, I took you in the dark for old Ramon! I thought you were in Pachanga.”
“In Pachanga!” Then as yet no one had come from the Señora Moreno's to Hartsel's in search of him and the Señorita Ramona! Alessandro's heart felt almost light in his bosom, From the one immediate danger he had dreaded, they were safe; but no trace of emotion showed on his face, and he did not raise his eyes as he replied; “I have been in Pachanga. My father is dead. I have buried him there.”
“Oh, Alessandro! Did he die?” cried the kindly woman, coming closer to Alessandro, and laying her hand on his shoulder. “I heard he was sick.” She paused; she did not know what to say. She had suffered so at the time of the ejectment of the Indians, that it had made her ill. For two days she had kept her doors shut and her windows close curtained, that she need not see the terrible sights. She was not a woman of many words. She was a Mexican, but there were those who said that some Indian blood ran in her veins. This was not improbable; and it seemed more than ever probable now, as she stood still by Alessandro's side, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes fixed in distress on his face. How he had altered! How well she recollected his lithe figure, his alert motion, his superb bearing, his handsome face, when she last saw him in the spring!
“You were away all summer, Alessandro?” she said at last, turning back to her work.
“Yes,” he said: “at the Señora Moreno's.”
“So I heard,” she said. “That is a fine great place, is it not? Is her son grown a fine man? He was a lad when I saw him. He went through here with a drove of sheep once.”
“Ay, he is a man now,” said Alessandro, and buried his face in his hands again.
