pped O'Neill on the arm.

"It is worth a hundred thousand francs," he whispered, with startled
eyes. "And besides, what a souvenir!"

The little room in which they bade O'Neill wait for the Senora opened
upon the patio of the house, where a sword of vivid sunlight sliced
across the shadows on the warm brick flooring, and a little
industrious fountain dribbled through a veil of ferns. There was a
shrine in the room; its elaboration of gilt and rosy wax faced the
open door, and from a window beside it one could see, below the
abrupt hill of Ronda, the panorama of the sun-steeped countryside.

The cool of the room was grateful to O'Neill after the heat of the
road. He set his hat on the small table and took a seat, marking the
utter stillness that reigned in that great Moorish house. Save for
the purr of the fountain no sounds reached him in all that nest of
cool chambers. The thought of it awoke in him new speculation as to
the woman he had come to see, who had buried the ashes of her fiery
youth in this serene retreat. He had thought about her with growing
curiosity throughout the journey from Paris, endeavoring to reduce to
terms of his own understanding the spirit that had flamed and faded
and guttered out in such a manner. The shrine at his elbow recalled
to him that she was "religious." It explained nothing.

He was staring at it in perplexity, when the doorway darkened, and he
was conscious that he was not alone. He started to his feet and bowed
confusedly to the woman on the threshold.

"Mr. O'Neill?" she inquired. Her pronunciation had the faultless
precision of the English-speaking Spaniard. He bowed again, and drew
out a chair for her.

It seemed that she hesitated a moment ere she came forward and
accepted it. When she stood in the door, with the slanting sun at her
back, O'Neill could see little of her save the trim outline of her
figure, wrought to plain severity by the relentless black dress she
wore. Now, when she was seated, he regarded her with all an artist's
quick curiosity. As Regnault had said, she was not much less than
fifty years old, but they were years that had trodden lightly. There
was nothing of age in the strong brows and the tempestuous eyes that
were dark under them; the mouth was yet full and impetuous. Some
discipline seemed to have laid a constraint on her; there was a
somber seriousness in her regard; but O'Neill recognized without
difficulty the proud, hardy, unquelled countenan