I was about to answer when dragging footsteps sounded on the stairs; the front door of the room opened and the little old man stood upon the threshold. A look of incredulous astonishment came over his seared yellow face, supplanted in an instant by rage. His lips parted in a snarl. “Thou, Malella—thou art here in the presence of a stranger?” He spoke in Spanish, his voice vibrating tense with the fierceness of his passion. The girl turned slowly around on the hassock; the lute slipped from her lap to the floor. The little old man was coming forward, and the malevolent gleam in his eyes made me leap to my feet. “Go thou to thy room, Malella—to thy room—at once.” The girl rose slowly and stood drooping beside me, as a flower droops for long lack of the water that gives it life. “_Sí, maestro_,” she answered. “I go.” I saw the old man hold her gaze with his glittering eyes. I realized there was about those snakelike little eyes of his an hypnotic power. The girl seemed to follow and to obey, involuntarily almost, his unspoken commands. She laid the lute on the mantel above the fireplace, and, turning slowly back, faced the old man as he stood close beside me. “Say good night to the gentleman,” he commanded, speaking this time in English. He spoke less harshly than before, as though by using my own language he unconsciously recognized the restraint my presence put upon him. Then he added to me, and again the miserable, groveling whine came back to his voice: “A foolish child, _señor_. You will excuse, of course.” “Good night, _señor_,” said the girl. I found myself very near to her, staring straight down into the clear, empty depths of her blue eyes. And there again I saw that look of appeal—like the patient look of a dog in pain—whispering to me, asking for my aid. As if to answer it, all the pent-up torrent of emotion within me burst forth. I swept the girl behind me with my arm and fronted the old man. “I am going now,” I said; and with surprise I heard my voice come quiet and repressed. “I thank you, sir, for showing me your painting. The _señorita_ here is ill. I am going to take her with me—to-night—to a hospital.” The old man seemed unable at first to grasp my meaning. He stood quavering before me, his lower jaw hanging slack, his eyes widening with surprise, a look of confusion on his face. “She is going with me now,” I repeated firmly. I turned around to her. “Get some long wrap, Malella, that will cover you. Hasten—I will wait for you here.” The girl stood irresolute. Confusion and fear were written on her face; her glance swung from one to the other of us, undecided. “At once. Malella, do you hear?” I added sharply. “Get your wrap—I will wait for you.” I pushed her away from me, and she stumbled forward toward the door through which she had entered the room.