"Well, my good José," he said hesitatingly, "your illness places us in a difficulty. I have here an order for your release" (he drew from his pocket a blue paper which might or might not be what he described); "I hoped that we should have been able to return to Spain together. You could have then placed the señorita beyond the reach of want; for from what she told me it is clear that your master left a large sum in your charge. But, alas! you are not at present able to travel. The best plan that I can think of is that you send the señorita instructions where she can find her property—you can either write her a letter or give me the message,—and I will see that you are released and nursed back to health. You can return to Spain when you are fit to travel." The sick man feebly shook his head, whispering: "I must not tell—anything. I swore it." "Yes, you swore it, and you have kept your oath. But it was never Don Fernan’s wish that the señorita should be allowed to—to starve while her fortune remained hidden. It is your duty to be guided by circumstances—by common sense." The other winced, but still replied: "I cannot; I swore it. Not till the war is over." Then, a ripple of impatience showing above his suave manner, the visitor said hastily: "Certainly, but the war is over; the fall of Saragossa finished the war. Joseph is again king in Madrid." "You are mistaken, Señor. If what you say is true, the war is only just beginning." There was a light in the man’s eyes, a fierce energy in his whispered words, that seemed first to embarrass, then to anger his visitor. "Well, my friend, if you will not listen to reason, if you prefer to allow your mistress to starve, I can do nothing more. I will give her your message." He rose from his seat. "And I shall at least have the satisfaction of being able to add that such an ungrateful rascal is dead; for in this hole you won’t live another week, and you can’t expect me to do anything for your release." "Stay!" The afrancesado caught the word and halted expectantly as he was turning away. With a supreme effort the sick man had raised himself on his elbow, and, struggling hard for breath, gasped out: "Liar! Traitor! Spy! Do you think—I do not—do not see you—for what you are? Go back—go back, accursed afrancesado, to those who have—bought you. Out of my sight! The price of blood!—Judas!—the doom of Judas—awaits you—the doom—of—Judas!" The afrancesado recoiled as at the stroke of a lash; then an ugly look crossed his face, and his hand sought the hilt of his knife. But even as it did so the man sank back half insensible, the gleam of fierce rage faded from his face, and while Miguel was hesitating whether to stay or go, the prisoner began to talk in a low but distinct voice, as repeating a lesson he had learned by heart.