said D'Esmonde, in a low, soft voice, as
he drew her low seat to his side.

"_He_ was killed at Madrid; he died before the Queen!" said she,
proudly.

"The death of a Toridor!" muttered the priest, mournfully.

"Yes, and Pueblos too,--he is dead!"

"Not the little child that I remember--"

"The same. He grew up to be a fine man; some thought him handsomer than
my father. My mother's family would have made a priest of him, but he
chose the prouder destiny."

"I cannot think of him but as the child,--the little fellow who played
about my knees; dressed like a matador, his long silky hair in a net."

"Oh, do not----do not speak of him," cried the girl, burying her face
between her hands; "my heart will not bear those memories."

The priest's face was lighted up with a malevolent delight as he bent
over her, as if revelling in the thought the emotions could call up.

"Poor little fellow!" said he, as if to himself. "How I remember his
bolero that he danced for me." He stopped, and she sobbed bitterly. "He
said that Lola taught him."

She looked up; the tears were fast coursing along her cheeks, which were
pale as death.

"Eustace," said she, tremulously, "these thoughts will drive me mad; my
brain is reeling even now."

"Let us talk of something else, then," said he. "When did you leave the
'Opera'--and why?"

"How can you ask? you were at Seville at the time. Have you forgotten
that famous, marriage, to which, by your persuasion, I consented; was
this scheme only one of those unhappy events which are to be the seed of
future good?"

The sneer made no impression on the priest, who calmly answered, "Even
so, Lola."

"What do you mean, sir?" cried she, angrily; "to what end am I thus?
Was I so base born and so low? Was my lot in life so ignominious that
I should not have raised my ambition above a fortune like this,--the
waiting-woman of one whose birth is not better than my own?"

"You are right, Lola,----perfectly right; and with patience and prudence
you will be her equal yet. Acton is an English noble--"

"What care I for that?" said she, passionately; "the marriage was a
counterfeit."

"The marriage was a true and valid one."

"And yet you yourself told me it was not binding."

"I had my reasons for the deceit, Lola," said he, persuasively. "You
were deserted and desolate; such widowhood would have brought you to
the grave with sorrow. It were better that you should strive against
misery."

"