"My love for Rosita
will only cease with my life."

And he rushed from the room, leaving the old man wondering.

II.

For some weeks the inmates of Don Pedro's house were forced to remain
prisoners, for rebel soldiers filled the neighbouring villages, and
troops of guerillas were being mustered to put them to flight. It was a
morning, early in September, just after the sun had peered above the
horizon. A fine rain had fallen during the night, and the drops which
rested on the foliage sparkled like myriads of diamonds. The streets
were as yet deserted; some muleteers alone passed along them at
intervals. Don Pedro's house was the only one astir.

Don Stephano, according to his custom, had risen with the dawn, and was
now alone in the lower hall, standing opposite the window which
overlooked the high road. He was occupied in fixing an iron lance upon a
wooden rod, at which he gazed abstractedly.

The sound of a voice filling the air with song attracted his attention;
it was singing the Moorish romance of "Adlemar and Adalifa," and to the
quick perception of a Spanish ear was marked with a slight Ultramontaine
accent, which Stephano discerned like a true Castilian. Without moving
he listened to the song which awoke the echoes of the valley. The
amorous words recalled to Stephano's mind the thought of Rosita, and he
sighed deeply. Then he listened anew to the voice, which grew nearer and
nearer, and in which, in spite of its strange accent, he seemed to hear
an understrain of singular emotion. His conjectures were not long,
however. A man enveloped in a large mantle peered in at the open window,
and after throwing a rapid glance behind him leapt into the room.
Stephano recoiled at the sight of such a strange visitor, and felt
tempted to seize the man, whom he took at first for a robber. Then a
troop of horsemen dashed past the house. The stranger gave a sigh of
relief. Then for the first time he caught sight of Stephano.

"I must be careful," the soldier muttered, as he drew his cloak more
carefully round him. "This Spaniard does not look over benevolent."

"Who can this man be?" thought Stephano, as he instinctively put his
hand on his pistols; but on seeing the stranger advance towards him with
a pleasant smile, he paused.

"Noble Castilian," said the stranger, "are you a man to oblige an enemy
in peril, and who for a quarter of an hour wishes you no more harm than
if you were his brother?"

Before replying,