He was also one vast desire for food and drink. But that
glimpse through the door had raised his spirits. He was in a great adobe
house surrounding a court in which a fountain splashed among ferns and
little orange-trees. It was the house of a grandee, but there was none
like it in the neighbourhood of the Rancho de los Palos Verdes.
He waited with what patience he could muster until his open door should
attract attention, listening to the murmur of the fountain, inhaling the
fragrance of orange and magnolia, wondering if Adan, too, were safe,
angrily resenting his weakness.
The door cautiously opened wide, and a woman, stout, brown, but of
exceeding grace and elegance, entered and bent over him.
"Good-day, senora," said Roldan, politely. "I am very hungry. Where am
I? And is Adan here?"
The lady smiled and patted his cheek with a shapely and flashing hand.
"He is well and sleeping, my son, and you are both in the Casa of Don
Tiburcio Carillo, of the Rancho Encarnarcion, in a great valley many,
many leagues from the Sierras and the snow--Madre de dios! Pobrecitos!
So cold you must have been, so frightened--and you the sons of great
rancheros, no?"
Roldan modestly named his fortunate status, then sat up and kissed her
hand, as he had seen his gallant brothers kiss the hands of lovely young
donas.
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