rom this vision of the past and of a long lost dream,
for as I stood the sweet voice of a woman began to sing yonder on the
brow of the slope; I was not mad, I heard it clearly, and the sound grew
ever nearer as the singer drew down the steep hillside. It was so near
now that I could catch the very words of that sad song which to this day
I remember.

Now I could see the woman's shape in the moonlight; it was tall and
stately and clad in a white robe. Presently she lifted her head to watch
the flitter of a bat and the moonlight lit upon her face. It was the
face of Lily Bozard, my lost love, beautiful as of yore, though grown
older and stamped with the seal of some great sorrow. I saw, and so
deeply was I stirred at the sight, that had it not been for the low
paling to which I clung, I must have fallen to the earth, and a deep
groan broke from my lips.

She heard the groan and ceased her song, then catching sight of the
figure of a man, she stopped and turned as though to fly. I stood quite
still, and wonder overcoming her fear, she drew nearer and spoke in the
sweet low voice that I remembered well, saying, 'Who wanders here so
late? Is it you, John?'

Now when I heard her speak thus a new fear took me. Doubtless she was
married and 'John' was her husband. I had found her but to lose her more
completely. Of a sudden it came into my mind that I would not discover
myself till I knew the truth. I advanced a pace, but not so far as to
pass from the shadow of the shrubs which grow here, and taking my stand
in such a fashion that the moonlight did not strike upon my face, I
bowed low in the courtly Spanish fashion, and disguising my voice spoke
as a Spaniard might in broken English which I will spare to write down.

'Madam,' I said, 'have I the honour to speak to one who in bygone years
was named the Senora Lily Bozard?'

'That was my name,' she answered. 'What is your errand with me, sir?'

Now I trembled afresh, but spoke on boldly.

'Before I answer, Madam, forgive me if I ask another question. Is this
still your name?'

'It is still my name, I am no married woman,' she answered, and for a
moment the sky seemed to reel above me and the ground to heave beneath
my feet like the lava crust of Xaca. But as yet I did not reveal myself,
for I wished to learn if she still loved my memory.

'Senora,' I said, 'I am a Spaniard who served in the Indian wars of
Cortes, of which perhaps you have heard.'

She bowed her head