“Be careful of these steps,” she said, “they are so slippery”—a statement to which Peter, whose pale face had grown suddenly red, murmured a hearty assent. “Do not be afraid,” she went on in her flute-like voice; “this is the secret garden, where none can hear words, however sweet, and none can see even a caress, no, not the most jealous woman. That is why in old days it was called the Sultana’s Chamber, for there at the end of it was where she bathed in the summer season. What say you of spies? Oh! yes, in the palace there are many, but to look towards this place, even for the Guardian of the Women, was always death. Here there are no witnesses, save the flowers and the birds.” As she spoke thus they reached the central path, and passed up it slowly, Peter’s hand still upon the shoulder of Inez, and her white arm about him, while she looked up into his eyes. “Bend closer over me,” she whispered, “for truly your face is like that of a wooden saint,” and he bent. “Now,” she went on, “listen. Your lady lives, and is well—kiss me on the lips, please, that news is worth it. If you shut your eyes you can imagine that I am she.” Again Peter obeyed, and with a better grace than might have been expected. “She is a prisoner in this same palace,” she went on, “and the marquis, who is mad for love of her, seeks by all means, fair or foul, to make her his wife!” “Curse him!” exclaimed Peter with another embrace. “Till a few days ago she thought you dead; but now she knows that you are alive and recovering. Her father, Castell, escaped from the place where he was put, and is in hiding among his friends, the Jews, where even Morella cannot find him; indeed, he believes him fled from the city. But he is not fled, and, having much gold, has opened a door between himself and his daughter.” Here she stopped to return the embrace with much warmth. Then they passed under some trees, and came to the marble baths where the sultanas were supposed to have bathed in summer, for this place had been one of the palaces of the Kings of Granada before they lived in the Alhambra. Here Inez sat down upon a seat and loosened some garment about her throat, for the evening was very hot. “What are you doing?” Peter asked doubtfully, for he was filled with many fears. “Cooling myself,” she answered; “your arm was warm, and we may sit here for a few minutes.” “Well, go on with your tale,” he said. “I have little more to say, friend, except that if you wish to send any message, I might perhaps be able to take it.” “You are an angel,” he exclaimed. “That is another word for messenger, is it not? Continue.” “Tell her—that if she hears anything of all this business, it isn’t true.” “On that point she may form her own opinion,” replied Inez demurely. “If I were in her place I know what mine would be. Don’t waste time; we must soon begin to walk again.”