Oh, we
shall have fun!"

I began to think we should, and that, thanks to a girl's counter-plotting,
I should have pretty plain sailing in spite of Carmona. But because I
began to see land ahead, I was the more anxious to give Monica peace of
mind; and when we said good-night to the O'Donnels about half-past ten, I
set out to carry through the plan I had thought of before dinner.

On the wall of the landlord's office, off the main hall, I had seen a
guitar hanging. It belonged to his son, a romantic-looking young fellow,
whose sympathetic soul delighted in lending the national aid to courtship,
without asking a single question.

I would be no true Spaniard if I could not play the guitar; and in fact my
mother had given me some dexterity with the instrument, before I was ten
years old. I had neglected it for years; nevertheless, my fingers had but
to touch the strings to be on friendly terms with them.

Madrid and Seville would probably be waking up to fullest life at this
hour; but in provincial towns one goes to bed early because there is
nothing more amusing to do.

At eleven the windows of the principal hotel were dark; and without being
stared at curiously by any passer-by, I stationed myself under the first
floor balconies, with my guitar.

I did not know which room was Monica's, but I did know that it could not
be far away; and I counted on the chance that anxious thoughts might keep
her from sleeping soundly.

Softly, and then more boldly, I began to thrum the air of the Hungarian
waltz which they had played that night at the Duchess of Carmona's, while
I told Monica I loved her. Often its passionate refrain had echoed in my
ears since, and brought the scene before me. I hoped that Monica also
might remember.

Five minutes passed, and still I played on, yet nothing happened. Then,
when I had begun to fear failure, I heard a faint sound overhead. A window
was opening. There was no gleam of light, no whisper; but something soft
and small fell close to my feet. I stooped and picked it up. It was a
rose, weighted by a grey suede glove, tied round the stem; and the glove
was scented with orris, the same delicate fragrance which had come to me
when I kissed Monica's hand, and her letters.

She had had my message, and answered it.

XIII

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE CATHEDRAL

Before six next morning, Cristobal O'Donnel was tapping at my door, with
the promised unifo