Peter stared at her, for he could understand nothing of all this play. Apparently she read his look, for she answered it in a quiet, serious voice: “You are wondering what everything means, and why I am doing what I do. I will tell you, Señor, and you can believe me or not as you like. Perhaps you think that I am in love with you. It would not be wonderful, would it? Besides, in the old tales, that always happens—the lady who nurses the Christian knight and worships him and so forth.” “I don’t think anything of the sort; I am not so vain.” “I know it, Señor, you are too good a man to be vain. Well, I do all these things, not for love of you, or any one, but for hate—for hate. Yes, for hate of Morella,” and she clenched her little hand, hissing the words out between her teeth. “I understand the feeling,” said Peter. “But—but what has he done to you?” “Do not ask me, Señor. Enough that once I loved him—that accursed priest Henriques sold me into his power—oh! a long while ago, and he ruined me, making me what I am, and—I bore his child, and—and it is dead. Oh! Mother of God, my boy is dead, and since then I have been an outcast and his slave—they have slaves here in Granada, Señor— dependent on him for my bread, forced to do his bidding, forced to wait upon his other loves; I, who once was the sultana; I, of whom he has wearied. Only to-day—but why should I tell you of it? Well, he has driven me even to this, that I must kiss an unwilling stranger in a garden,” and she sobbed aloud. “Poor girl!—poor girl!” said Peter, patting her hand kindly with his thin fingers. “Henceforth I have another score against Morella, and I will pay it too.” “Will you?” she asked quickly. “Ah! if so, I would die for you, who now live only to be revenged upon him. And it shall be my first vengeance to rob him of that noble-looking mistress of yours, whom he has stolen away and has set his heart upon wholly, because she is the first woman who ever resisted him—him, who thinks that he is invincible.” “Have you any plan?” asked Peter.