ear as her other lover
had thousands? Would she be able to resist her mother, now that mother had
seen with her own eyes how much there was to fight for and to win?

The question would come. But with it came a vision of Monica herself, pure
and sweet as beautiful, loyal and loving as she was lovely. And I said to
myself, "Yes, she will be true."

It was with the clear ringing of these words in my mind that I turned my
back upon the house of Carmona.

Once I had passed into the Alcazar with Olivero's band of dancers and
guitarists I was free to do as I pleased. And I pleased to escape from my
laughing, chattering companions before the arrival of the Duke and his
guests, and the illuminations in their honour. There was no better place
to wait and watch for the opportunity I wanted, than in the mock-Moorish
kiosk at the end of the lower garden. From there I could see without being
seen; and the moment a chance came I should be ready to take it.

It was early still, but Olivero lost no time in marshalling his little
army into place, that they might make a good effect as a _tableau vivant_
when the great people came. He seated his six men with guitars, their
sombreros at precisely the right angle on their glossy black heads, and in
a row of chairs in front six young women in black dresses with black lace
mantillas, the red and yellow ribbons of their castanets already in their
hands. Then, at intervals, he grouped the dancers, youths, and pretty
girls, carefully dressed in the costumes of different provinces, making a
bouquet of bright colours in the light of a few concealed lamps which
supplemented the silver radiance of the moon, now almost at the zenith.

The minutes passed. The dancers talked in subdued tones which scarcely
disturbed the nightingales. A breeze rustled the crisp leaves of the
orange trees and myrtle hedges; far away the voice of the watchman told
the hour of eleven, echoed by the chiming bells of a church clock; and the
last stroke had not sounded when there was a burst of merry voices in a
distant avenue. Carmona and his friends had come--late, of course--or there
could have been no Andalucians among them; and suddenly, as if on a
signal, the gardens pulsed with rose-coloured light. In the pink blaze I
saw Monica, slender and fair as a lily, in a white dress sparkling with
silver; but I had only time to see that she walked beside Carmona, when
the rose flame died down and left the garden pure and peac