Jacinto was left standing in a narrow passage, or corridor, on which opened a long row of chambers with curtained doors, wherein slept the soldiers, crowded thickly together. In the gallery, also, at a distance, lay several dusky lumps, which, by the gleaming of armour about them, were seen to be the bodies of soldiers stretched fast asleep. As the boy turned to retire in the direction of the open portal, it was darkened by the figure of a man, entering with a cautious and most stealthy step. He approached, and by his voice, (for there was not light enough yielded by the few flambeaux stuck against the wall, to distinguish features,) Jacinto recognised his father. "I sought thee, my child!" he whispered, "and saw thee returning with the hidalgos.--The watchmen sleep as well as the cannoniers.--It is as I told thee--art thou ready?" "Dear father!"--stammered the page. "Speak not above thy breath!--The curs, that are hungering after the blood of the betrayed Mexicans, would not scorn to blunt their appetites on the flesh of the Moor. Have thyself in readiness at a moment's warning: Our destinies are written--God will not always frown upon us!" "Dear father!" muttered Jacinto, "we are of the Spaniards' faith, and we will go back to our country." "It cannot be!--never can it be!" said Abdalla, in tones that were not the less impressive for being uttered in a whisper. "The hills of thy childhood, the rivers of thy love--they are passed away from thee;--think of them no more;--never more shalt thou see them! In the land of barbarians, heaven has willed that we should live and die; and be thou reconciled to thy fate, for it shall be glorious! We live not for ourselves; God brings us hither, and for great ends! To night, did I--Hah!"--(One of the sleepers stirred in the passage.)--"Seek some occasion to speak with me, to-morrow, on the march," whispered Abdalla in the page's ear; and then, with a gesture for silence, he immediately retired. "_Fuego! Quien pasea alli?_" grumbled the voice of Lazaro, as he raised his head from the floor. "_Fu! el muchacho!_--I am ever dreaming of that cursed Turk, that was at my weasand, when Baltasar brained him with the boll of his cross-bow. _Laus tibi, Christe!_--I have a throat left for snoring." And comforting himself with this assurance, before Jacinto had yet vanished from the passage, the man-at-arms again slumbered on his mat. CHAPTER XXV.