'Old lady seems to have stood it well,' commented the Englishman in
his mind.

'Never again, my dear Estella, do I leave Ronda, except indeed for
Toledo, where, of course, we shall go in the summer if this terrible
Don Carlos is really driven from the country. Ah! but what
suffering! My mind is never at ease. I expect to wake up at night
and hear that Julia is being murdered in her bed. For me it does
not matter; my life is not so gay that it will cost me much to part
from it. No one would molest an old woman, you think? Well, that
may be so; but I know all the anxiety, for I was once beautiful--ah!
more beautiful than you or Julia; and my hands and feet--have you
ever noticed my foot, Estella?--even now--!'

And a sonorous sigh completed the sentence. Conyngham stepped out
of the doorway, the clank of his spurred heel on the marble pavement
causing the sigh to break off in a little scream. He had caught the
name of Julia, and hastily concluded that these ladies must be no
other than Madame Barenna and her daughter. In the little bamboo
grove he found the elder lady lying back in her chair, which creaked
ominously, and asking in a faint voice whether he were Don Carlos.

'No,' answered Estella, with a momentary twinkle in her grave, dark
eyes; 'this is Mr. Conyngham--my aunt, Senora Barenna, and my cousin
Julia.'

The ladies bowed.

'You must excuse me,' said Madame Barenna volubly, 'but your
approach was so sudden. I am a great sufferer--my nerves, you know.