mud upon the wheels of her travelling-carriage, which had just crossed
Italy, France, and Spain. It was, of course, the Marana,--the Marana
who, in spite of her thirty-six years, was still in all the glory of
her ravishing beauty; the Marana who, being at that time the mistress
of a king, had left Naples, the fetes, the skies of Naples, the climax
of her life of luxury, on hearing from her royal lover of the events
in Spain and the siege of Tarragona.

"Tarragona! I must get to Tarragona before the town is taken!" she
cried. "Ten days to reach Tarragona!"

Then without caring for crown or court, she arrived in Tarragona,
furnished with an almost imperial safe-conduct; furnished too with
gold which enabled her to cross France with the velocity of a rocket.

"My daughter! my daughter!" cried the Marana.

At this voice, and the abrupt invasion of their solitude, the
prayer-book fell from the hands of the old couple.

"She is there," replied the merchant, calmly, after a pause during
which he recovered from the emotion caused by the abrupt entrance, and
the look and voice of the mother. "She is there," he repeated,
pointing to the door of the little chamber.

"Yes, but has any harm come to her; is she still--"

"Perfectly well," said Dona Lagounia.

"O God! send me to hell if it so pleases thee!" cried the Marana,