“I was still less than twenty, and looked, they told me, only fourteen, when Señor Menendez came to inspect his estate. I had never seen him before. There had been a rising in the island, in the year after I was born, and he had only just escaped with his life. He was hated. People called him Devil Menendez. Especially, no woman was safe from him, and in the old days, when his power had been great, he had used it for wickedness. “My father was afraid when he heard he was coming. He would have sent me away, but before it could be arranged Señor the Colonel arrived. He had in his company a French lady. I thought her very beautiful and elegant. It was Madame de Stämer. It is only four years ago, a little more, but her hair was dark brown. She was splendidly dressed and such a wonderful horsewoman. The first time I saw her I felt as they had made me feel at the convent. I wanted to hide from her. She was so grand a lady, and I came from slaves.” She paused hesitatingly and stared down at her own tiny feet. “Pardon me interrupting you, Mrs. Camber,” I said, “but can you tell me in what way these two are related?” She looked up with her naïve smile. “I can tell you, yes. A cousin of Señor Menendez married a sister of Madame de Stämer.” “Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “a very remote kinship.” “It was in this way they met, in Paris, I think, and”--she raised her hands expressively--“she came with him to the West Indies, although it was during the great war. I think she loved him more than her soul, and me--me she hated. As Señor Menendez dismounted from his horse in front of the house he saw me.” She sighed and ceased speaking again. Then: “That very night,” she continued, “he began. Do you know? I was trying to escape from him when Madame de Stämer found us. She called me a shameful name, and my father, who heard it, ordered her out of the house. Señor Menendez spoke sharply, and my father struck him.” She paused once more, biting her lip agitatedly, but presently proceeded: “Do you know what they are like, the Spanish, when their blood is hot? Senor Menendez had a revolver, but my father knocked it from his grasp. Then they fought with their bare hands. I was too frightened even to cry out. It was all a horrible dream. What Madame de Stämer did, I do not know. I could see nothing but two figures twined together on the floor. At last one of them arose. I saw it was my father, and I remember no more.” She was almost overcome by her tragic recollections, but presently, with a wonderful courage, which, together with her daintiness of form, spoke eloquently of good blood on one side at any rate, continued to speak: