er, his thoughts all gathered about Dolores.

Suddenly, in the very midst of these thick-teeming fancies, his
attention was arrested by a strange sound.

It was only a slight rustle, scarce audible, yet still he heard it,
and under such circumstances it seemed most mysterious. In an instant
he was all attention. He lay motionless, yet listened with intense
watchfulness, peering at the same time into the dark room, where the
moonlight struggled through the low, narrow windows.

After a little while he thought that he heard the sound again. He
listened, without motion.

Then there came a different sound. It was a low whisper--a whisper
which, however, penetrated to his very soul:

"Assebi!"

Was there any other in all the world who would pronounce his name in
that way? It was the well-known, well-remembered, and dearly loved
name as it had been pronounced by Dolores in the old days at
Valencia. Coming thus to him at such a time, it seemed too good to be
true. He was afraid that he had been deceived by his own fancy; he
feared to move lest he might dispel this sweet vision. Yet he hoped
that he might not be mistaken; and in this hope, scarce expecting an
answer, he said, in a gentle whisper,

"Dolores!"

"I am here!" said a soft voice.

At this Ashby's heart beat wildly, and a thrill of rapture rushed
through every nerve and fibre of his being. He sprang up and peered
through the gloom, and moved forward in the direction from which the
voice seemed to have come. At this moment he did not stop to consider
how Dolores could have got there. It was enough that she really was
there, and all other feelings were lost in his deep joy.

"Dolores," he said, "where are you? I don't see you."

Through the room a figure now advanced across the moonbeams. He saw
the figure. In another instant he had caught Dolores in his arms, and
held her strained close to his wildly throbbing heart. But Dolores
struggled away.

"Oh no!" she said, in a tone of distress, speaking in her sweet
Spanish--"oh no, Senor Assebi. This is cruel--when I have risked so
much for you!"

"Forgive me, dearest Dolores," said Ashby; "but you have come to me
like an angel from heaven in my darkest hour. And I have thought of
you, and of you only, ever since you left me at Burgos. I wandered
all through the streets there to find you. I have been in despair at
losing you. I have been wondering whether I should ever see you
again--and now, dearest, sweete