He arrived at night. Padre Ortega was away, so he could get no news of
the Senora except that she was still alive. He sent her a note at once,
telling her to expect him at eleven the next morning.
Again he took a long hot ride over sun-burned hills and fields, for it
wanted but a few weeks of his birthday. As he cantered through the oaks
near the house he saw that a hammock was swung across the veranda, and
that some one lay in it--a woman, for a heavy braid of black hair hung
over the side and trailed on the floor.
"Surely," he thought, "surely--it cannot be the Senora--in a hammock!"
And then he suddenly realized that the disease must have taken her
flesh.
His hands trembled as he dismounted and tied his horse to a tree, and he
lingered as long as he could, for he felt that his face was white. But
he was a man long used to self-control, and in a moment he walked
steadily forward and ascended the steps to the veranda. And then as he
stood looking down upon the hammock he needed all the control he
possessed.
For the Senora had gone and Delfina Carillo lay there. Not the
magnificent pulsing creature of old, for her face was pinched and little
blue veins showed everywhere; but the ugly browns had gone with her
flesh, her skin was white, and her cheeks flamed with color.
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