Is there a senorita?"
"You shut up and go to sleep," snapped Dade, and afterward would not
speak at all.
Manuel, in the shadow, frowned over the only words he understood--Don
Andres Picardo and senorita. The senors were agreeable companions, and
they were his guests. But they were gringos, after all. And if
they should presume to lift desireful eyes to the little Senorita
Teresa--Teresita, they called her fondly who knew her--Manuel's
mustache lifted suddenly at one side at the bare possibility.
CHAPTER VI
THE VALLEY
In the valley of Santa Clara, which lies cradled easily between
mountains and smiles up at the sun nearly the whole year through,
Spring has a winter home, wherein she dwells contentedly while the
northern land is locked in the chill embrace of the Snow King. In
February, unless the north wind sweeps down jealously and stays her
hand, she flings a golden brocade of poppies over the green hillsides
and the lower slopes which the forest has left her. Time was when she
spread a deep-piled carpet of mustard over the floor of the valley
as well, and watched smiling while it grew thicker and higher and the
lemon-yellow blossoms vied with the orange of the poppies, until the
two set all the valley aglow.
Now it was March, and the hillsides were ablaze with the poppies,
and the valley floor was soft green and yellow to the knees; with
the great live oaks standing grouped in stately calm, like a herd
of gigantic, green elephants scattered over their feeding-ground and
finding the peace of repletion with the coming of the sun.
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