enito at Gibraltar?" he asked, quietly,

"We have not seen him for weeks. Since--since--you know, my
life!--since you came to our house he has kept away. But I heard my
uncle say that he had left the Rock to buy mules. He was going, I
believe, to Alicante. Did you see him there?"

"I saw many ruffians of his stamp, but I did not distinguish our
friend."

"You must never let him come near you, Stanislas. Remember what I say.
He is treacherous, truculent--a very fiend."

"If he comes across my path I will put my heel upon him like a toad.
But let us talk of something more pleasant--of you--of our future
life. Shall you like to live in England, and never see the sun?"

"You will be my sun, Stanislas."

"Then you will have to learn English."

"It will be easy enough if you teach me."

"Some day you will be a great lady--one of the greatest in London,
perhaps. You'll have a grand house, carriages, magnificent dresses,
diamonds--"

"I only want you," she said, as she nestled closer to his side.

It was sad that stern duty should put an end to these pretty love
passages, but the moment of separation arrived inexorably, and, after
a sad, passionate leave-taking, McKay tore himself away.

Mariquita for days was inconsolable. She brooded constantly in a
corner, weeping silent tears, utterly absorbed in her grief. They
considerately left her alone. Since she had become the affianced wife
of a man of McKay's rank and position, both the termagant aunt and
cross-grained uncle had treated her with unbounded respect. They would
not allow her to be vexed or worried by any one, least of all by
Benito, who, as soon as the English officer was out of the way, again
began to haunt the house.

It was about her that they were having high words a day or two after
McKay's departure.

Mariquita overheard them.

"You shall not see her, I tell you!" said La Zandunga, with shrill
determination. "The sweet child is sad and sick at heart."

"She has broken mine, as you have your word to me. I shall never be
happy more."

He spoke as though he was in great distress, and his grief, if false,
was certainly well feigned.

"Bah!" said old Pedro. "No man ever died of unrequited love. There are
as good fish in the sea."

"I wanted this one," said Benito, in deep dejection. "No matter; I am
going away. There is a fine chance yonder, and I may perhaps forget
her."

"Where, then?" asked the old woman.

"In the Crimea. I start to-morr