Still, I fear these Spaniards less than the guerrilleros: they are
everywhere. They call themselves patriots, but they are nothing
more than robbers. They--"

Asensio paused abruptly. He seized his companion by the arm and,
leaning forward, stared across the level garden into the shadows
opposite. Something was moving there, under the trees; the men
could see that it was white and formless, and that it pursued an
erratic course.

"What's that?" gasped the negro. He began to tremble violently and
his breath became audible. Esteban was compelled to hold him down
by main force. "Jesus Cristo! It's old Don Esteban, your father.
They say he walks at midnight, carrying his head in his two
hands."

Young Varona managed to whisper, with some show of courage: "Hush!
Wait! I don't believe in ghosts." Nevertheless, he was on the
point of setting Asensio an example of undignified flight when the
mysterious object emerged from the shadows into the open
moonlight; then he sighed with relief: "Ah-h! Now I see! It is my
stepmother. She is asleep."

"Asleep?" Asensio was incredulous. He was still so unnerved by his
first fright that Esteban dared not release him.

"Yes; her eyes are open, but she sees nothing."

"I don't like such things," the negro confessed in a shaky voice.
"How can she walk if she is asleep? If her eyes are open, how can