h. Even then, it escaped in a sudden twinkle of her
eye, which both the Commander and his subordinate were quick to notice,
as she replied demurely, "Perhaps."

It was enough for the Commander. A gleam of antique archness and
venerable raillery lit up his murky, tobacco-colored pupils; a spasm of
gallantry crossed the face of the secretary.

"Ah--what would you?--it is the way of the world," said the Commander.
"We comprehend. Come!"

He led the way across the corridor, and suddenly opened a small
barred door. Whatever preconceived idea Miss Keene may have had of her
unfortunate country-woman immured in a noisome cell, and guarded by
a stern jailer, was quite dissipated by the soft misty sunshine that
flowed in through the open door. The prison of Mrs. Markham was a part
of the old glacis which had been allowed to lapse into a wild garden
that stretched to the edge of the sea. There was a summer-house built
on--and partly from--a crumbling bastion, and here, under the shade of
tropical creepers, the melancholy captive was comfortably writing,
with her portable desk on her knee, and a traveling-bag at her feet.
A Saratoga trunk of obtrusive proportions stood in the centre of the
peaceful vegetation, like a newly raised altar to an unknown deity. The
only suggestion of martial surveillance was an Indian soldier, whose
musket, reposing on the ground near Mrs. Markham, he had exchanged for
the rude mattock with which he was quietly digging.

The two women, with a cry of relief, flew into each other's arms. The
Commander and his secretary discreetly retired to an angle of the wall.

"I find everything as I left it, my dear, even to my slipper-bag," said
Mrs. Markham. "They've forgotten nothing."

"But you are a captive!" said Eleanor. "What does it mean?"

"Nothing, my dear. I gave them a piece of my mind," said Mrs. Markham,
looking, however, as if that mental offering had by no means exhausted
her capital, "and I have written six pages to the Governor at Mazatlan,
and a full account to Mr. Markham."

"And they won't get them in thirty years!" said Miss Keene impetuously.
"But where is this letter from Senor Perkins. And, for Heaven's sake,
tell me if you had the least suspicion before of anything that has
happened."

"Not in the least. The man is mad, my dear, and I really believe driven
so by that absurd Illinois woman's poetry. Did you ever see anything
so ridiculous--and shameful, too--as the 'Ulricardo' busin