A little vine-clad cottage, built close against a rock, nearly concealed by the dense foliage around it, stood beside a clear rivulet whose eddying current supplied water to the mill, and rose in a dew-like spray which sparkled like gems in the pale moonlight. All was still within, but as I came nearer I thought I could detect the chords of a guitar. “Can it be,” thought I, “that Master Fred has given himself up to minstrelsy; or is it some little dress rehearsal for a serenade? But no,” thought I, “that certainly is not Power’s voice.” I crept stealthily down the little path, and approached the window; the lattice lay open, and as the curtain waved to and fro with the night air, I could see plainly all who were in the room. Close beside the window sat a large, dark-featured Spaniard, his hands crossed upon his bosom and his head inclined heavily forward, the attitude perfectly denoting deep sleep, even had not his cigar, which remained passively between his lips, ceased to give forth its blue smoke wreath. At a little distance from him sat a young girl, who, even by the uncertain light, I could perceive was possessed of all that delicacy of form and gracefulness of carriage which characterize her nation. Her pale features--paler still from the contrast with her jet black hair and dark costume--were lit up with an expression of animation and enthusiasm as her fingers swept rapidly and boldly across the strings of a guitar. “And you’re not tired of it yet?” said she, bending her head downwards towards one whom I now for the first time perceived. Reclining carelessly at her feet, his arm leaning upon her chair, while his hand occasionally touched her taper fingers, lay my good friend, Master Fred Power. An undress jacket, thrown loosely open, and a black neck-cloth, negligently knotted, bespoke the easy _nonchalance_ with which he prosecuted his courtship. “Do sing it again?” said he, pressing her fingers to his lips. What she replied, I could not catch; but Fred resumed: “No, no; he never wakes. The infernal clatter of that mill is his lullaby.” “But your friend will be here soon,” said she. “Is it not so?” “Oh, poor Charley! I’d almost forgotten him. By-the-bye, you mustn’t fall in love with him. There now, do not look angry; I only meant that, as I knew he’d be desperately smitten, you shouldn’t let him fancy he got any encouragement.” “What would you have me do?” said she, artlessly. “I have been thinking over that, too. In the first place, you’d better never let him hear you sing; scarcely ever smile; and as far as possible, keep out of his sight.” “One would think, Senhor, that all these precautions were to be taken more on my account than on his. Is he so very dangerous, then?”