The sort of woman who will mother you at sight, was the senora.

Purple silk--hastily put on for the guests, one might suspect--clothed her royally.

Golden hoops hung from her ears, a diamond brooch held together the lace beneath her cushiony chin; a comfortable woman who smiled much, talked much and worried more lest she leave some little thing undone for those about her.
"And this is the poor senor who was in such dreadful danger!" she went on commiseratingly.

"Ah, the wicked times that have come upon us! Presently we shall fear to sleep in our beds--Senor Hunter, you have been hurt! The mark of blood is on your sleeve, the stain is on your side! A-ah, my poor friend! Come instantly and I will--" "Gracias, Senora; it is nothing.

Besides, Manuel put on a poultice of herbs.