olling matins, and many people abroad in the streets,
hurrying toward the church, saw them--interrogating one another as to
where they had been, and on what errand bound.

But before entering the _pueblo_ they had to pass under the same eyes
that observed them going outward on the other side; these more keenly
and anxiously scrutinising them now, noting every file as it came in
sight, every individual horseman, till the last was revealed; then
lighting up with joyous sparkle, while they, thus observing, breathed
freely.

For the soldiers had come as they went, not a man added to their number,
if none missing, but certainly no prisoners brought back!

"They've got safe off," triumphantly exclaimed the Countess, when the
rearmost files had forged past, "as I told you they would. I knew there
was no fear after they had been warned."

That they had been warned both were by this aware, their messenger
having meanwhile returned and reported to that effect. He had met the
Hussars on their way up, but crouching among some bushes, he had been
unobserved by them; and, soon as they were well out of the way, slipped
out again and made all haste home.

He had brought back something more than a mere verbal message--a
_billetita_ for each of the two who had commissioned him.

The notes were alike, in that both had been hastily scribbled, and in
brief but warm expression of thanks for the service done to the writers.
Beyond this, however, they were quite different. It was the first
epistle Florence Kearney had ever indited to Luisa Valverde, and ran in
fervid strain. He felt he could so address her. With love long in
doubt that it was even reciprocated, but sure of its being so now, he
spoke frankly as passionately. Whatever his future, she had his heart,
and wholly. If he lived, he would seek her again at the peril of a
thousand lives; if it should be his fate to die, her name would be the
last word on his lips.

"_Virgen Santissima_! Keep him safe!" was her prayer, as she finished
devouring the sweet words; then, refolding the sheet on which they were
written, secreted it away in the bosom of her dress--a treasure more
esteemed than aught that had ever lain there.

The communication received by the Condesa was less effusive, and more to
the point of what, under present circumstances, concerned the writer,
as, indeed, all of them. Don Ruperto wrote with the confidence of a
lover who had never known doubt. A man of r