Reinaldo did not go to his Prudencia. He went down to the booths in
the town and joined the late revelers. Don Guillermo, rising before
dawn, and walking up and down the corridor to conquer the pangs of
Doña Trinidad's dulces, noticed that the door of his son's room was
ajar. He paused before it and heard slow, regular, patient sobs. He
opened the door and went in. Prudencia, alone, curled up in a far
corner of her bed, the clothes over her head, was bemoaning many
things incidental to matrimony. As she heard the sound of heavy steps
she gave a little shriek.

"It is I, Prudencia," said her uncle. "Where is Reinaldo?"

"I--do--not--know."

"Did he not come from the ball-room with thee?"

"N-o-o-o-o."

"Dost thou know where he has gone?"

"N-o-o-o, señor."

"Art thou afraid?"

"Ay! God--of--my--life!"

"Never mind," said the old gentleman. "Go to sleep. Thy uncle will
protect thee, and this will not happen again."