"Yes," I said. "She is your woman. I have nothing to do with her. But she is very tired and not well, and I have offered her my bed for the night." "This is very bad, señor!" exclaimed the Captain, in a tightening voice. "You are the guest of this Tropa and the Colonel’s friend, but this is my woman and I want her——" "Oh!" Elizabetta cried out. "Until the next time, señor!" She caught my arm and pulled me on. We had been living in a nightmare of battle and death—all of us. I think everybody was a little dazed and excited. I know I was. By this time the peons and soldiers had begun to gather around us, and as we went on the Captain’s voice rose as he retailed his injustice to the crowd. "I shall appeal to the Colonel," he was saying. "I shall tell the Colonel!" He passed us, going toward the Colonel’s cuartel, with averted, mumbling face. "_Oiga, mi Coronel!_" he cried. "This Gringo has taken away my woman. It is the grossest insult!" "Well," returned the Colonel calmly, "if they both want to go, I guess there isn’t anything we can do about it, eh?" The news had traveled like light. A throng of small boys followed us close behind, shouting the joyful indelicacies they shout behind rustic wedding parties. We passed the ledge where the soldiers and the wounded sat, grinning and making rough, genial remarks as at a marriage. It was not coarse or suggestive, their banter; it was frank and happy. They were honestly glad for us. As we approached Don Pedro’s house we were aware of many candles within. He and his wife and daughter were busy with brooms, sweeping and resweeping the earthen floor, and sprinkling it with water. They had put new linen on the bed, and lit the rush candle before the table altar of the Virgin. Over the doorway hung a festoon of paper blossoms, faded relics of many a Christmas Eve celebration—for it was winter, and there were no real flowers. Don Pedro was radiant with smiles. It made no difference who we were, or what our relation was. Here were a man and a maid, and to him it was a bridal. "May you have a happy night," he said softly, and closed the door. The frugal Elizabetta immediately made the rounds of the room, extinguishing all the candles but one. And then, outside, we heard music beginning to tune up. Some one had hired the village orchestra to serenade us. Late into the night they played steadily, right outside our door. In the next house we heard them moving chairs and tables out of the way; and just before I went to sleep they began to dance there, economically combining a serenade with a _baile_. Without the least embarrassment, Elizabetta lay down beside me on the bed. Her hand reached for mine. She snuggled against my body for the comforting human warmth of it, murmured, "Until morning," and went to sleep. And calmly, sweetly, sleep came to me....