The man, alguazil or not, neither saw him nor suspected his being there,
but walked tranquilly on.

When he was well beyond earshot the dwarf, deeming himself safe, was
about to drop back into the lane, when a murmur of voices prompted him
to keep his perch. They were feminine, sweet as the sound of rippling
brooks, and gradually becoming more distinct; which told him that those
from whom they proceeded were approaching the spot. He had already
observed that the enclosure was a grand ornamental garden with walks,
fountains, and flowers; a large house on its farther side.

Presently the speakers appeared--two young ladies sauntering side by
side along one of the walks, the soft moonlight streaming down upon
them. As it fell full upon their faces, now turned toward the wall, the
dwarf started at a recognition, inwardly exclaiming--

"_Santissima_! The senoritas of the carriage!"

CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

A TALE OF STARVATION.

It was the garden of Don Ignacio's _casa de campo_; the ladies, his
daughter and the Condesa. The lovely night, with balm in the air and a
bright moon shining through the sky, had drawn them out, and they
strolled through the grounds, keeping step, as it were, to that
matchless melody, the song of the _czenzontle_. But note of no
nightingale was in their thoughts, which were engrossed by graver
themes.

"'Tis so strange our never hearing from them, and not a word of them.
What do you make of it, Ysabel? Is it a bad sign?"

The question was asked by the Dona Luisa.

"That we haven't heard from them is--in a way," responded the Countess.
"Yet that may be explained, too. The probability is, from the roads
being all watched and guarded, as we know they are, they'd be cautious
about communicating with us. If they've sent a messenger--which I hope
they haven't--he must have been intercepted and made prisoner. And
then, the message; that might compromise us. But I know Ruperto will be
careful. Not to have heard of them is all for the best--the very best.
It should almost assure us that they're still free, and safe somewhere.
Had they been recaptured, we'd have known before this. All Mexico would
be talking about it."

"True," assented Don Ignacio's daughter, with a feeling of relief.
"They cannot have been retaken. But I wonder where they are now."

"So I myself, Luisita. I hope, however, not at that old monastery of
which Ruperto gave me a description in one of his letters.