"True, Señorita, I was a kind of ensign, though in the 95th we’ve no colours to carry. But—" "I fear," she continued, after a scarcely perceptible pause, "—yes, that you are—well, not quite so nice as you used to be." Her eyes were dancing with merriment, and in a flash Jack recalled the time, six years ago, when a little maid with just such eyes had been his occasional playmate in Barcelona. True, there was little other resemblance; she had been an elf-like girl, with tangled hair, thin cheeks, and the shy manner of a child unused to the society of children. Before him now stood a tall girl with a dignity and self-possession beyond her years, her rounded cheeks and bright eyes showing that the trials of the siege had as yet touched her but lightly. "Juanita!" exclaimed Jack, almost below his breath. "Well, of all the extraordinary—of all the stupid—" Juanita laughed outright—the old rippling laugh that Jack now remembered well. "I hope, Señor Lumsden, you are not referring to me," she said. "You must think me an ass," he replied, half-amused, half-nettled. "But," he added, seeing a loophole, "it isn’t my fault. It’s you who have changed, not I. And I came to Saragossa on purpose to see you. To think it was you all the time!" "Indeed we thank you. I don’t know what we should have done without you," said Juanita more seriously. "We could never have got away. Don’t think me ungrateful; I knew you at once; but it was all so terrible, and I saw you didn’t know me. And then, when all was over, I ought to have explained, but I—well—" "Didn’t," said Jack with a smile. "I see you haven’t changed so much after all. The same Juanita, mischievous as ever." "I’m afraid not, Jack. I’m years older than I was a few months ago. We were happy then; now everything is different." The tears stood in her eyes. "Yes," said Jack, "I had heard; that is why I came to see you." They were silent; then Juanita, with a brave effort to smile, said: "Now, Jack, tell me all about yourself." In a few words Jack gave an account of what had happened to him since his arrival in Spain, Juanita listening with an interest and excitement that every now and then found expression in eager questions. "But now," said Jack in conclusion, "it’s your turn. I have many things to ask. Do you know, I met an old friend not long ago, who told me something about you." "Oh! Who was that, and what was it?" "Well, I called him an old friend—for your sake. It was Miguel Priego." "Him!" Her shrug was expressive. "Why do you say for my sake?" "Well, considering what he told me—" "What did he say? Don’t be mysterious." "He said—that you were about to be married." "Married! Good gracious! To whom?" "To him!" "To Mig Prig?" Her scornful laugh was wholly convincing, and Jack could not help joining heartily in her merriment when he heard once again his boyish nickname for their common tyrant. "That’s all right, then," he said.