walls, a mat by the iron bed, an altar in the corner, linen with
elaborate drawn-work on bureau and washstand. The blood poured upward to
the young adventurer's face. Was this his room? Had he been ill and
dreamed strange happenings? He freed his arms and sat up. No; there was
no room in his father's house exactly like this, monotonous as were the
furnishing and architecture of the time.

He took his head between his hands and thought; the events of the past
weeks marched through his brain in rapid and precise succession--up to a
certain point: his senses had been frozen in the Sierras. From a raging
snowstorm to this blistering bed all was blank.

He disencumbered himself, slipped to the floor, and opened the door,
then scrambled back to bed as best he could; his legs felt as if they
had been boned. 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?"