In a few minutes the lamp disappeared, the window opened, and Militona took in her water-jar. In so doing she upset one of the pots of sweet basil, which fell into the street and was broken to pieces. Amidst the brown earth scattered upon the pavement, something white was visible. It was Militona's answer. Andres called a _sereno_, or watchman, who just then passed, with his lantern at the end of his halbert, and begging him to lower the light, read the following words, written in a tremulous hand, and in large irregular letters:-- "Begone instantly.... I have no time to say more. To morrow, at ten o'clock, in the church of San Isidro. For Heaven's sake begone! your life is at stake." "Thank you, my good man," said Andres, putting a real into the sereno's hand, "you may go." The street was quite deserted, and Andres was walking slowly away, when the apparition of a man, wrapped in a cloak, beneath which the handle of a guitar formed an acute angle, excited his curiosity, and he stepped into the dark shadow of a low archway. The man threw back the folds of his cloak, brought his guitar forward, and began that monotonous thrumming which serves as accompaniment to serenades and seguidillas. The object of this prelude evidently was to awaken the lady in whose honour it was perpetrated; but Militona's window continued closed and dark; and at last the man, compelled to content himself with an invisible auditory,--in spite of the Spanish proverb, which says, no woman sleeps so soundly that the twang of a guitar will not bring her to the window,--began to sing in a strong Andalusian accent. The serenade consisted of a dozen verses, in which the singer celebrated the charms of a cruel mistress, vowed inextinguishable love, and denounced fearful vengeance upon all rivals. The menaces, however, were far more abundant, in this rude ditty, than the praises of beauty or protestations of affection. "_Caramba_!" thought Andres, when the song concluded, "what ferocious poetry! Nothing tame about those couplets. Let us see if Militona is touched by the savage strain. This must be the terrible lover by whom she is so frightened. She might be alarmed at less." Don Andres advanced his head a little; a moonbeam fell upon it, and Juancho's quick eye detected him. "Good!" said Andres to himself, "I am caught. Now then, cool and steady." Juancho threw down his guitar, which resounded mournfully on the pavement, and ran up to Andres, whose face was now in the full moonlight, and whom he at once recognised. "What do you here at this hour?" said the bull-fighter, in a voice that trembled with passion. "I listen to your music; it is a refined amusement." "If you listened, you heard that I allow no one to set foot in this street when I sing." "I am naturally very disobedient," replied Andres, with perfect coolness. "You will change your character to-day." "Certainly not--I am attached to my habits."