Peter saw his face, and groaned, for, except the red scar upon his cheek, it was ivory white and wasted to nothing. “I am glad Margaret did not see me like this,” he said, with an attempt at a smile, “bearded too, and what a beard! Lady, how could you have nursed one so hideous?” “I have not found you hideous,” she answered softly; “besides, that is my trade. But you must not talk, you must rest. Drink this, and rest,” and she gave him soup in a silver bowl, which he swallowed readily enough, and went to sleep again. Some days afterwards, when Peter was well on the road to convalescence, his beautiful nurse came and sat by him, a look of pity in her tender, Eastern eyes. “What is it now, Inez?” he asked, noting her changed face. “Señor Pedro, you spoke to me a while ago, when you woke up from your long sleep, of a certain Margaret, did you not? Well, I have been inquiring of this Dona Margaret, and have no good news to tell of her.” Peter set his teeth, and said: “Go on, tell me the worst.” “This Margaret was travelling with the Marquis of Morella, was she not?” “She had been stolen by him,” answered Peter. “Alas! it may be so; but here in Spain, and especially here in Granada, that will scarcely screen the name of one who has been known to travel with the Marquis of Morella.” “So much the worse for the Marquis of Morella when I meet him again,” answered Peter sternly. “What is your story, Nurse Inez?” She looked with interest at his grim, thin face, but, as it seemed to him, with no displeasure. “A sad one. As I have told you, a sad one. It seems that the other day this señora was found dead at the foot of the tallest tower of the marquis’s palace, though whether she fell from it, or was thrown from it, none know.” Peter gasped, and was silent for a while; then asked: “Did you see her dead?” “No, Señor; others saw her.” “And told you to tell me? Nurse Inez, I do not believe your tale. If the Dona Margaret, my betrothed, were dead I should know it; but my heart tells me that she is alive.” “You have great faith, Señor,” said the woman, with a note of admiration in her voice which she could not suppress, but, as he observed, without contradicting him. “I have faith,” he answered. “Nothing else is left; but so far it has been a good crutch.” Peter made no further allusion to the subject, only presently he asked: “Tell me, where am I?” “In a prison, Señor.” “Oh! a prison, with a beautiful woman for jailer, and other beautiful women”—and he pointed to a fair creature who had brought something into the room—“as servants. A very fine prison also,” and he looked about him at the marbles and arches and lovely carving. “There are men without the gate, not women,” she replied, smiling. “I daresay; captives can be tied with ropes of silk, can they not? Well, whose is this prison?” She shook her head. “I do not know, Señor. The Moorish king’s perhaps—you yourself have said that I am only the jailer.” “Then who pays you?”