Iris threw herself back on the trestle in a passion of grief that rivaled the outer tempest.

San Benavides, by sheer force of habit, dusted his clothes before sitting on the chair brought by Luisa Gomez.

The woman's frightened gaze had dwelt on Iris and him alternately while they spoke.

She understood no word that was said, but she gathered that the news brought by this handsome officer was tragic, woeful, something that would wring the heartstrings.
"Was there fighting, senhor ?" she asked, close to his ear, her voice pitched in a key that conquered the storm.
He nodded.

He was very tired, this dandy; now that Iris gave no further heed to him, he was troubled by the prospects of the coming day.
"Were they soldiers who fought ?" He nodded again.
"No islanders ?" Then he raised a hand in protest, though he laughed softly.
"Your good man is safe, senhora," he said.