ame,
kindly invited him into the porch, and told him that the baron and his
wife were in the country with the Marquesa Romero. They were expected
back on Tuesday, and would doubtless receive him then, for they had
already asked about him several times. The young gentleman probably came
from some foreign country; it was the custom to wear hats in Madrid.

Ulrich now noticed what he lacked, but before leaving, to supply the
want, asked the porter, if he knew what had become of Master Moor.

Safe! He was safe! Several weeks before Donna Sophonisba had received a
letter sent from Flanders, and Ulrich's companion was well informed, for
his wife served the baroness as 'doncella'.

Joyously, almost beside himself with pure, heart-cheering delight,
the released prisoner hurried away, bought himself a new cap, and then
sought the Alcazar.

Before the treasury, in the place of old Santo, Carmen's father, stood
a tall, broad portero, still a young man, who rudely refused him
admittance.

"Master Moor has not been here for a long time," said the gate-keeper
angrily: "Artists don't wear ragged clothes, and if you don't wish to
see the inside of a guard-house--a place you are doubtless familiar
with--you had better leave at once."

Ulrich answered the gate-keeper's insulting taunts indignantly and
proudly, for he was no longer the yielding boy of former days, and the
quarrel soon became serious.

Just then a dainty little woman, neatly dressed for the evening
promenade, with the mantilla on her curls, a pomegranate blossom in her
hair, and another on her bosom, came out of the Alcazar. Waving her
fan, and tripping over the pavement like a wag-tail, she came directly
towards the disputants.

Ulrich recognized her instantly; it was Carmen, the pretty embroiderer
of the shell-grotto in the park, now the wife of the new porter, who had
obtained his dead predecessor's office, as well as his daughter.

"Carmen!" exclaimed Ulrich, as soon as he saw the pretty little woman,
then added confidently. "This young lady knows me."

"I?" asked the young wife, turning up her pretty little nose, and
looking at the tall youth's shabby costume. "Who are you?"

"Master Moor's pupil, Ulrich Navarrete; don't you remember me?"

"I? You must be mistaken!"

With these words she shut her fan so abruptly, that it snapped loudly,
and tripped on.

Ulrich shrugged his shoulders, then turned to the porter more
courteously, and this time succeeded