l in Spanish.

"Come out," cried the savage in some other language, which Lawrence did
not understand, but which the colonel evidently did, for he clapped on
his hat, and, without a word of explanation, hurried with Tiger out of
the room, leaving Lawrence to solitary meditation.

The other conversation that we have referred to was held in the garden
of the hotel, under a thick overhanging tree, between Pedro and the
lovely lady who had been the cause of Lawrence's little affair with the
colonel.

"What have you done with her, Pedro?" asked the lovely lady.

"Taken her to the villa, where she will be well cared for."

"But why so quickly? Why not wait for me?" The voice was in very truth
that of Manuela, though the countenance was that of a Spanish senhorina!

"Because time is precious. We have received news which calls for speedy
action, and I must be in close attendance on your father, Manuela. As I
am likely to have quarter of an hour to spare while he holds a palaver
with Tiger, I have sought you out to ask an explanation, for I'm eager
to know how and where my darling was found. I can wait as well as most
men, but--"

"Yes, yes, _I_ know," said Manuela, drawing her mantilla a little more
closely over her now fair face. "You shall hear. Listen. You know
that my father loves you?"

Pedro smiled assent, and nodded.

"His is a loving and loveable nature," resumed our heroine.

("So is his daughter's," thought Pedro, but he did not say so.)

"And he never forgets a friend," continued Manuela. "He has often,
often spoken to me about you, and your dear ones, and many a time in his
military wanderings has he made inquiries about the dear child who was
stolen so long ago--ten years now, is it not?"

"Ay, not far short of eleven. She was just turned five when last I
beheld her angel face--no, not _last_, thank God."

"Well, Pedro, you may easily believe that we had many raisings of our
hopes, like yourself, and many, many disappointments, but these last
arose from our looking chiefly in wrong directions. It somehow never
occurred to us that her lot might have fallen among people of rank and
wealth. Yet so it was. One day when out on the Pampas not far from
Buenos Ayres, visiting a friend, and never thinking of dear Mariquita,
we saw a young girl coming towards us down the garden walk.

"As she came near, my father stopped short, and laid his hand on my
shoulder with such a grasp that I nearly crie