A score of hands were extended in
answer, with fingers pointing up the Calle de la Constitucion.
The horseman had gone on with only a glance of casual curiosity upwards
to the windows of the Amarilla Club at the corner. His stentorian voice
shouted periodically in the empty street, "Which is the Casa Avellanos?"
till an answer came from the scared porter, and he disappeared under
the gate. The letter he was bringing, written by Father Corbelan with
a pencil by the camp-fire of Hernandez, was addressed to Don Jose, of
whose critical state the priest was not aware. Antonia read it, and,
after consulting Charles Gould, sent it on for the information of the
gentlemen garrisoning the Amarilla Club. For herself, her mind was made
up; she would rejoin her uncle; she would entrust the last day--the last
hours perhaps--of her father's life to the keeping of the bandit, whose
existence was a protest against the irresponsible tyranny of all parties
alike, against the moral darkness of the land. The gloom of Los Hatos
woods was preferable; a life of hardships in the train of a robber band
less debasing.
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