“An _estancia_ without dogs, and where the master has nothing to say--that sounds strange,” I remarked tentatively, but he puffed on in silence. “What is the name of the house?” I said, after remounting my horse. “It is a house without a name,” he replied; and after this rather unsatisfactory interview I left him and slowly went on to the _estancia_. On approaching the house I saw that there had formerly been a large plantation behind it, of which only a few dead stumps now remained, the ditches that had enclosed them being now nearly obliterated. The place was ruinous and overgrown with weeds. Dismounting, I led my horse along a narrow path through a perfect wilderness of wild sunflowers, horehound, red-weed, and thorn-apple, up to some poplar trees where there had once been a gate, of which only two or three broken posts remained standing in the ground. From the old gate the path ran on, still through weeds, to the door of the house, which was partly of stone and partly of red brick, with a very steep, sloping, tiled roof. Beside the ruined gate, leaning against a post, with the hot afternoon sun shining on her uncovered head, stood a woman in a rusty-black dress. She was about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, and had an unutterably weary, desponding expression on her face, which was colourless as marble, except for the purple stains under her large, dark eyes. She did not move when I approached her, but raised her sorrowful eyes to my face, apparently feeling little interest in my arrival. I took off my hat to salute her, and said: “Señora, my horse is tired, and I am seeking for a resting-place; can I have shelter under your roof?” “Yes, _caballero_; why not?” she returned in a voice even more significant of sorrow than her countenance. I thanked her, and waited for her to lead the way; but she still remained standing before me with eyes cast down, and a hesitating, troubled look on her face. “Señora,” I began, “if a stranger's presence in the house would be inconvenient--” “No, no, señor, it is not that,” she interrupted quickly. Then, sinking her voice almost to a whisper, she said: “Tell me, señor, have you come from the department of Florida? Have you--have you been at San Paulo?” I hesitated a little, then answered that I had. “On which side?” she asked quickly, with a strange eagerness in her voice. “Ah, señora,” I returned, “why do you ask me, only a poor traveller who comes for a night's shelter, such a question--” “Why? Perhaps for your good, señor. Remember, women are not like men--implacable. A shelter you shall have, señor; but it is best that I should know.” “You are right,” I returned, “forgive me for not answering you at once. I was with Santa Coloma--the rebel.” She held out her hand to me, but, before I could take it, withdrew it and, covering her face, began to cry. Presently recovering herself and turning towards the house, she asked me to follow.