uired no great mystery, but nevertheless her
door was bolted, for fear probably of some sudden invasion on the part
of Juancho, rendered doubly dangerous by the absence of Tia Aldonsa. As
she worked, Militona's thoughts travelled faster than her needle. They
ran upon the young man who had gazed at her the previous evening, at the
circus, with so tender and ardent a gaze, and who had spoken a few words
to her in a voice that still sounded pleasantly in her ear.

It was night, and Juancho, straitened and uncomfortable in his modern
costume, and wearied with fruitless researches, paced the alleys of the
Prado with hasty steps, looking every man in the face, but without
discovering his rival. At the same hour, Andres, seated in an
_orchateria de chufas_ (orgeat-shop) nearly opposite Militona's house,
quietly consumed a glass of iced lemonade. He had placed himself on
picket there, with Perico for his vedette. Juancho would have passed him
by without recognising him, or thinking of seeking his enemy under the
round jacket and felt hat of a manolo, but Militona, concealed in the
corner of her window, had not been deceived for an instant by the young
man's disguise. Love has sharper eyes than hatred. Devoured by anxiety,
the manola asked herself what could be the projects of the persevering
cavalier, and dreaded the terrible scene that must ensue should Juancho
discover him. Andres, his elbows upon the table, watched every one who
went in or out of the house; but night came and Militona had not
appeared. He began to doubt the correctness of his emissary's
information, when a light in the young girl's window showed that the
room was inhabited. Hastily writing a few words in pencil on a scrap of
paper, he called Perico, who lingered in the neighbourhood, and bade him
take the billet to the pretty manola. Perico slipped into the house,
fumbled his way up stairs, and discovered Militona's door by the light
shining through the cracks. Two discreet taps; the wicket was half
opened, and the note taken in.

"It is to be hoped she can read," thought Andres, as he paid for his
lemonade, left the shop, and walked slowly up and down the street. This
was what he had written:--

"One who cannot forget you, and who would grieve to do so, ardently
desires to see you again; but after your last words at the circus, and
ignorant of your position, he fears to place you in peril by seeking an
interview. Danger to himself would be no obstacle. Ex