dropping, exhausted and half dead, into a chair.

The flush in her cheeks, due to anxiety, paled suddenly; she had
strength to endure suffering, but none to bear this joy. Joy was more
violent in her soul than suffering, for it contained the echoes of her
pain and the agonies of its own emotion.

"But," she said, "how have you kept her safe? Tarragona is taken."

"Yes," said Perez, "but since you see me living why do you ask that
question? Should I not have died before harm could have come to
Juana?"

At that answer, the Marana seized the calloused hand of the old man,
and kissed it, wetting it with the tears that flowed from her eyes
--she who never wept! those tears were all she had most precious
under heaven.

"My good Perez!" she said at last. "But have you had no soldiers
quartered in your house?"

"Only one," replied the Spaniard. "Fortunately for us the most loyal
of men; a Spaniard by birth, but now an Italian who hates Bonaparte; a
married man. He is ill, and gets up late and goes to bed early."

"An Italian! What is his name?"

"Montefiore."

"Can it be the Marquis de Montefiore--"