Instead she shut herself into her room, where she paced the floor,
racking her brain to guess where the hiding-place could be or to
devise some means of silencing Sebastian's tongue. To feel that
she had been overmatched, to know that there was indeed a
treasure, to think that the two who knew where it was had been
laughing at her all this time, filled the woman with an agony
approaching that which Sebastian suffered from his flies.
As the sun was sinking beyond the farther rim of the Yumuri and
the valley was beginning to fill with shadows. Esteban Varona rode
up the hill. His temper was more evil than ever, if that were
possible, for he had drunk again in an effort to drown the memory
of his earlier actions. With him rode half a dozen or more of his
friends, coming to dine and put in another night at his expense.
There were Pablo Peza, and Mario de Castano, once more; Col.
Mendoza y Linares, old Pedro Miron, the advocate, and others of
less consequence, whom Esteban had gathered from the Spanish Club.
The host dismounted and lurched across the courtyard to Sebastian.
"So, my fine fellow," he began. "Have you had enough of rebellion
by this time?"
"Why did you have him flogged?" the advocate inquired.
Esteban explained, briefly, "He dared to raise his hand in anger
against one of my guests.
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