ng of all this mummery with which we passed the night, for, by all
the gods of Rome, it was weird enough to turn my hair gray, yet I
understood neither word nor deed. How came that grim preacher to
attain such honor, taking position beside their peerless Queen?"

His idiotic lightness of speech and manner jarred unpleasantly upon my
humor. I was heavy-hearted from what had passed, retaining little
confidence in the future, yet I told him the story as best I could,
trusting the recital might serve to sober him, so we could counsel
together regarding our plans.

"_Pardieu_! 'twas rather a pretty trick of the lady," he exclaimed
laughingly, as I ended the tale. "She would do honor to a more
pretentious court with her wit as well as beauty. What did you call
the title she bore?"

"'Daughter of the Sun' was the name given in the altar-house yonder;
later she made use of the word Naladi."

"Ay! that was it. 'T is a name fitting her well to my taste, and I
boast of some experience with the sex. _Sacre_! I trust not to have
seen the last of so fair a vision as this Queen Naladi."

He was twirling his moustache, such a look of complacency upon his
features I could only stare at him in bewildered surprise.

"You appear reconciled to our situation with marvellous good grace," I
managed to say at last, in a tone which made no attempt to conceal my
disgust at his coxcombry. "For myself I can see very little to hope
for."

"Tut, tut, man," stretching himself negligently into a posture of
greater ease, "an old soldier learns to take things as they come,
without complaint; to extract sweets from every flower. Surely here is
a rare rose we have uncovered blooming in the wilderness; nor am I
blind to its beauty, or unmindful of my privileges. Besides, lad, what
is there greatly to worry about? We are preserved, you tell me, from
torture; food will undoubtedly be supplied in plenty, while the lady is
surely fair enough to promise pleasant companionship in exile--provided
I ever learn to have private speech with her. What was the tongue?"

"We conversed in Spanish."

"I thought as much; there were certain familiar words. But, as I said,
why complain of fate, with all these blessings showered upon us.
_Pardieu_! it would prove us ungrateful wretches. Surely 'tis better
than the tender mercy of O'Reilly, ay, or the hardship and starvation
of the trail."

"You have forgotten your wife."

"Forgotten? _Sacre_! I sh