"I fear the soldiers will be here before you can return," I said, eager to get them both gone, and yet loth to lose their help in case of need. In fact I was so distracted by my double set of anxieties I scarcely knew what to say or do. "That must be your risk and hers, senor. Save her if you can; but if you can’t, then God’s will be done." "I would rather you stayed in case of need," I said then, weakly. "So that we three and the senorita be caught like rats in a trap;" and he smiled at my weakness. "No, no, if the soldiers get here before we are strong enough in numbers to hold the place, the fewer they find the better. Good-bye, senor, and the Saints protect you both. Here, Andreas," he called, and gave him his instructions, that one of the lads should lead him and Garcia the nearest and safest way to the town, and the other remain in readiness to give warning on his return if the soldiers came there; and having given me a final pressure of the hand he and Garcia rode off on their desperate business and were soon out of sight. I gazed after them in a mood of almost desperate indecision; even then half-minded to call them back, risk everything, and bid them wait while I called out Sarita and joined them on the journey to the town. But the mood and the moment passed. I let them go. Their horses’ footfalls died away in the distance; and swinging myself from the saddle, I followed Juan to the door of the house, on which he knocked, three times a soft double knock. An old woman opened it, holding a candle over her head, and peering curiously and cautiously at me. "Is all well, Juan?" she asked in a deep voice. "All is well, Mother Calvarro," answered the boy. "The senor is welcome," and she made way for me to enter. "Shall I stop outside, senor?" asked the boy. "And use your eyes like a lynx, my lad, and warn us instantly of anything you notice." The old crone closed the door carefully after him, and then holding the candle near my face, she said: "Counting all renegades, senor?" "Lovers of Satan. By the Grace of God, Mother Calvarro," and I doffed my hat. "By the Grace of God," she repeated, fervently. "And your name, senor?" "Is my own, Mother. I would see the senorita at once," I said, putting a note of authority into my voice. "She is broken by the ill-news that Juan brought. Truly a day of woe. The Holy Virgin save us and protect us all," and she raised her disengaged hand, sighed heavily, turned and shuffled slowly along the narrow bare-walled passage, pausing at a door. "Shall I tell her of your coming?" "Better not," I replied, and as she opened the door, I entered, my heart beating quickly. It was a low farmhouse room, very barely furnished; wooden chairs and a bare wooden table on which stood a candle that flickered feebly in the gust of air caused by the opening door.