surprised to hear
such language from the gitanilla's lips, and but that he would not
betray signs of weakness, he could have wept with her.

While all this was passing, the old gitana was busily turning over a
great many things in her mind, and after all this cogitation, she said,
"Wait a little, your honour, and I will turn these lamentations into
joy, though it should cost me my life;" and she stepped briskly out of
the room. Until she returned, Preciosa never desisted from her tears and
entreaties that they would entertain the cause of her betrothed, being
inwardly resolved that she would send to his father that he might come
and interfere in his behalf.

The old gipsy woman returned with a little box under her arm, and
requested that the corregidor and his lady would retire with her into
another room, for she had important things to communicate to them in
secret. The corregidor imagined she meant to give him information
respecting some thefts committed by the gipsies, in order to bespeak his
favour for the prisoner, and he instantly withdrew with her and his lady
to his closet, where the gipsy, throwing herself on her knees before
them both, began thus:

"If the good news I have to give to your honours be not worth
forgiveness for a great crime I have committed, I am here to receive the
punishment I deserve. But before I make my confession, I beg your
honours will tell me if you know these trinkets;" and she put the box
which contained those belonging to Preciosa into the corregidor's hands.
He opened it, and saw those childish gewgaws, but had no idea what they
could mean. The corregidora looked at them, too, with as little
consciousness as her husband, and merely observed that they were the
ornaments of some little child. "That is true," replied the gipsy, "and
to what child they belonged is written in this folded paper." The
corregidor hastily opened the paper, and read as follows:--

"_The child's name was Dona Constanza de Acevedo y de Menesis; her
mother's, Dona Guiomar de Menesis; and her father's, D. Fernando de
Acevedo, knight of the order of Calatrava. She disappeared on the day of
the Lord's Ascension, at eight in the morning, in the year one thousand
five hundred and ninety-five. The child had upon her the trinkets which
are contained in this box._"

Instantly, on hearing the contents of the paper, the corregidora
recognised the trinkets, put them to her lips, kissed them again and
again, and swoo