him to the winds. She stirred a depth
in him which he had known nothing of. He felt himself trembling all
over--but while he hesitated a quick step behind caused him to look
round. He saw a man following Manuela, and presently knew that it was
Gil Perez.

And Gil, with none of his own caution, walked on her side of the street
and, overtaking her, took off his hat and accosted her by some name
which caused her to turn like a beast at bay. Nothing abashed, Gil
asked her a question which clapped a hand to her side and sent her
cowering to the wall. She leaned panting there while he talked
rapidly, explaining with suavity and point. It was very interesting to
Manvers to watch these two together, to see, for instance, how Gil
Perez comported himself out of his master's presence; or how Manuela
dealt with one of her own nation. They became strangers to him, people
he had never known. He felt a foreigner indeed.

The greatest courtesy was observed, the most exact distance. Gil Perez
kept his hat in his hand, his body at a deferential angle. His weaving
hands were never still. Manuela, her first act of royal rage ended,
held herself superbly. Her eyes were half closed, her lips tightly so;
and she so contrived as to get the effect of looking down upon him from
a height. Manvers imagined that his name or person was being brought
into play, for once Manuela looked at her companion and bowed her head
gravely. Gil Perez ran on with his explanations, and apparently
convinced her judgment, for she seemed to consent to something which he
asked of her; and presently walked on her way with a high head, while
Gil Perez, still holding his hat, and still explaining, walked with
her, but a little way behind her.

A cooling experience. Manvers strolled back to his hotel and his bed,
with his unsuspected nature deeply hidden again out of sight. He
wondered whether Gil Perez would have anything to tell him in the
morning, or whether, on the other hand, he would be discreetly silent
as to the adventure. He wondered next where that adventure would end.
He had no reason to suppose his servant a man of refined sensibilities.
Remembering his eloquence on the road to Madrid, the paean he blew upon
the fairness of Valencian women, he laughed. "Here's a muddy wash upon
my blood-boltered pastoral," he said aloud. "Here's an end of my
knight-errantry indeed!"

There was nearly an end of him--for almost at the same moment he was