“Perhaps I am not paid, Señor; perhaps I work for love,” and she glanced at him swiftly, “or hate,” and her face changed. “Not hate of me, I think,” said Peter. “No, Señor, not hate of you. Why should I hate you who have been so helpless and so courteous to me?” and she bent the knee to him a little. “Why indeed? especially as I am also grateful to you who have nursed me back to life. But then, why hide the truth from a helpless man?” Inez glanced about her; the room was empty now. She bent over him and whispered: “Have you never been forced to hide the truth? No, I read it in your face, and you are not a woman—an erring woman.” They looked into each other’s eyes a while, then Peter asked: “Is the Dona Margaret really dead?” “I do not know,” she answered; “I was told so.” And as though she feared lest she should betray herself, Inez turned and left him quickly. The days went by, and through the slow degrees of convalescence Peter grew strong again. But they brought him no added knowledge. He did not know where he dwelt or why he was there. All he knew was that he lived a prisoner in a sumptuous palace, or as he suspected, for of this he could not be sure, since the arched windows of one side of the building were walled up, in the wing of a palace. Nobody came near to him except the fair Inez, and a Moor who either was deaf or could understand nothing that he said to him in Spanish. There were other women about, it is true, very pretty women all of them, who acted as servants, but none of these were allowed to approach him; he only saw them at a distance. Therefore Inez was his sole companion, and with her he grew very intimate, to a certain extent, but no further. On the occasion that has been described she had lifted a corner of her veil which hid her true self, but a long while passed before she enlarged her confidence. The veil was kept down very close indeed. Day by day he questioned her, and day by day, without the slightest show of irritation, or even annoyance, she parried his questions. They knew perfectly well that they were matching their wits against each other; but as yet Inez had the best of the game, which, indeed, she seemed to enjoy. He would talk to her also of all sorts of things—the state of Spain, the Moorish court, the danger that threatened Granada, whereof the great siege now drew near, and so forth—and of these matters she would discourse most intelligently, with the result that he learned much of the state of politics in Castile and Granada, and greatly improved his knowledge of the Spanish tongue. But when of a sudden, as he did again and again, he sprang some question on her about Morella, or Margaret, or John Castell, that same subtle change would come over her face, and the same silence would seal her lips.