The door of the house with the balcony was opened by a servant
who, when he saw who it was that Rodriguez carried, fled into the
house in alarm, as one who runs with bad news. He carried one
candle and, when he had disappeared with the steaming flame,
Rodriguez found himself in a long hall lit by the moonlight only,
which was looking in through the small contorted panes of the
upper part of a high window. Alone with echoes and shadows
Rodriguez carried the hurt man through the hall, who was muttering
now as he came back to consciousness. And, as he went, there came
to Rodriguez thoughts between wonder and hope, for he had had no
thought at all when he beat on the door except to get shelter and
help for the hurt man. At the end of the hall they came to an open
door that led into a chamber partly shining with moonlight.
"In there," said the man that he carried.
Rodriguez carried him in and laid him on a long couch at the end
of the room. Large pictures of men in the blackness, out of the
moon's rays, frowned at Rodriguez mysteriously. He could not see
their faces in the darkness, but he somehow knew they frowned. Two
portraits that were clear in the moonlight eyed him with absolute
apathy. So cold a welcome from that house's past generations boded
no good to him from those that dwelt there today. Rodriguez knew
that in carrying the hurt man there he helped at a Christian deed;
and yet there was no putting the merits of the case against the
omens that crowded the chamber, lurking along the edge of
moonlight and darkness, disappearing and reappearing till the
gloom was heavy with portent.
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