The woman held up her hands and shook them from side to side in a gesture of horror.

“Ah! but there!” she cried, “I know what you are.  There is no turning your back on your road.  If you say you will go—­you will go though it rain rocks.  But this child—­ah, dear, dear!  You do not know what you have married—­with your bright eyes.  Sit down, my child.  I will get you what I can.  Some coffee.  I am alone in the house.  All my men have gone to the high valley, now that the snow is gone, to collect wood and to see what the winter has done for our hut up in the mountain.”

Marcos thanked her, and explained that they wanted nothing but a roof under which to leave his horse.

“We are going up to the higher valley to-night,” he said, “where we shall find your husband and sons.  And at daylight we must hurry on to Torre Garda.  But I want to borrow a dress and handkerchief belonging to one of your daughters.  See, the Senora cannot walk in that one, which is too fine and too long.”

“Oh, but my daughters ...” exclaimed the old woman, with deprecating hands.

“They are very pretty girls,” answered Marcos, with a laugh.  “All the valley knows that.”

“They are not bad,” admitted the mother, “but it is a flower compared to a cabbage.  Still, we can hide the flower in the cabbage leaves if you like.”

And she laughed heartily at her own conceit.

“Then see to it while I put my horse away,” said Marcos.  He quitted the hut and overheard the woman pointing out to Juanita that she had lost her mantilla coming through the trees in the dark.  While he attended to his horse he could hear their laughter and gay conversation over the change of clothes; for Juanita understood these people as well as he did, and had grown through childhood to the age of thought in their midst.  The peasant was still pressing a simple hospitality upon Juanita when Marcos returned to the cottage and found her ready for the journey.

“I was telling the Senora,” explained the woman volubly, “that she must not so much as look inside the cottage in the mountains.  I have not been there for six months and the men—­you know what they are.  They are no better than dogs I tell them.  There is plenty of clean hay and dry bracken in the sheds up there and you can well make a soft bed for her to get some sleep for a few hours.  And here I have unfolded a new blanket for the lady.  See, it is white as I bought it.  She can use it.  It has never been worn—­by us others,” she added with perfect simplicity.

Marcos took the blanket while Juanita explained that having slept soundly every night of her life without exception, she could well now accommodate herself with a rest of two hours in the hay.  The woman pressed upon them some of her small store of coffee and some new bread.

“He can well prepare your breakfast for you,” she said, confidentially to Juanita.  “He is like one of us.  All the valley will tell you that.  A great gentleman who can yet cook his own breakfast—­as the good God meant them to be.”