The place was a kind of livery or bait stable patronised by
muleteers and gipsy dealers, who brought in horses from Spain.
Picking her steps carefully, Mrs. Wilders entered the stable-yard.
"Benito Villegas?" she asked in fluent Spanish, of the ostler, who
stared with open-mouthed surprise at this apparition of a fine lady in
such a dirty locality.
"Benito, the commission agent and guide? Yes, senora, he is with his
horses inside," replied the ostler, pointing to the stable-door.
"Call him, then!" cried Mrs. Wilders, imperiously. "Think you that I
will cross the threshold of your piggery?" and she waited, stamping
her foot impatiently whilst the man did her bidding.
In another minute he came out with Benito Villegas, the man in the
brown suit, who had spoken to Mrs. Wilders in the Commercial Square.
"Cypriana," he began at once, in a half-coaxing, half-apologetic tone.
"Silence! Answer my questions, or I will thrash you with your own
whip. How dared you intrude yourself upon me to-day?"
"Forgive me! I was so utterly amazed. I thought some bright vision had
descended from above, sent, perhaps, by the Holy Virgin"--he crossed
himself devoutly--"I could not believe it was you."
"Thanks! I am not an angel from heaven, I know, but let that pass.
Answer me! How dared you speak to me to-day?"
"The sight of you awoke old memories; once again I worshipped
you--your shadow--the ground on which you trod.
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