From the thing, whatever it
might be, my mind passed to the Spaniard's sword with which I had tossed
it aside, and from the sword to the man himself. What had been his
business in this parish?--an ill one surely--and why had he looked as
though he feared me and fallen upon me when he learned my name?
I stood still, looking downward, and my eyes fell upon footprints
stamped in the wet sand of the path. One of them was my mother's. I
could have sworn to it among a thousand, for no other woman in these
parts had so delicate a foot. Close to it, as though following after,
was another that at first I thought must also have been made by a woman,
it was so narrow. But presently I saw that this could scarcely be,
because of its length, and moreover, that the boot which left it was
like none that I knew, being cut very high at the instep and very
pointed at the toe. Then, of a sudden, it came upon me that the Spanish
stranger wore such boots, for I had noted them while I talked with
him, and that his feet were following those of my mother, for they had
trodden on her track, and in some places, his alone had stamped their
impress on the sand blotting out her footprints. Then, too, I knew what
the white rag was that I had thrown aside. It was my mother's mantilla
which I knew, and yet did not know, because I always saw it set
daintily upon her head.
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