She had
heard of many calamities, and aided many; but they had always been far
sundered from her, they had never touched her; in this man's presence
they seemed to grow very close, terribly real. She led him on to speak
of his comrades, of his daily life, of his harassing routine of duties
in peace, and of his various experiences in war. He told her, too, of
Leon Ramon's history; and as she listened, he saw a mist arise and dim
the brilliancy of those eyes that men complained would never soften. The
very fidelity with which he sketched to her the bitter sufferings and
the rough nobility that were momentarily borne and seen in that great
military family of which he had become a son by adoption, interested her
by its very unlikeness to anything in her own world.

His voice had still the old sweetness, his manner still its old grace;
and added to these were a grave earnestness and a natural eloquence that
the darkness of his own fortunes, and the sympathies with others that
pain had awakened, had brought to him. He wholly forgot their respective
stations; he only remembered that for the first time for so many
years he had the charm of converse with a woman of high breeding, of
inexpressible beauty, and of keen and delicate intuition. He wholly
forgot how time passed, and she did not seek to remind him; indeed, she
but little noted it herself.

At last the conversation turned back to his Chief.

"You seem to be aware of some motive for your commandant's dislike?" she
asked him. "Tell me to what you attribute it?"

"It is a long tale, madame."

"No matter; I would hear it."

"I fear it would only weary you."

"Do not fear that. Tell it me."

He obeyed, and told to her the story of the Emir and of the Pearl of
the Desert; and Venetia Corona listened, as she had listened to him
throughout, with an interest that she rarely vouchsafed to the recitals
and the witticisms of her own circle. He gave to the narrative a
soldierly simplicity and a picturesque coloring that lent a new interest
to her; and she was of that nature which, however, it may be led to
conceal feeling from pride and from hatred, never fails to awaken to
indignant sympathy at wrong.

"This barbarian is your chief!" she said, as the tale closed. "His
enmity is your honor! I can well credit that he will never pardon your
having stood between him and his crime."

"He has never pardoned it yet, of a surety."

"I will not tell you it was a noble action,"