One of the younger guests was heard murmuring his satisfaction at the fact. But the General continued, with deliberate earnestness: “They are so different! The tale of a king who took a beggar-maid for a partner of his throne may be pretty enough as we men look upon ourselves and upon love. But that a young girl, famous for her haughty beauty and, only a short time before, the admired of all at the balls in the Viceroy’s palace, should take by the hand a guasso, a common peasant, is intolerable to our sentiment of women and their love. It is madness. Nevertheless it happened. But it must be said that in her case it was the madness of hate--not of love.” After presenting this excuse in a spirit of chivalrous justice, the General remained silent for a time. “I rode past the house every day almost,” he began again, “and this was what was going on within. But how it was going on no mind of man can conceive. Her desperation must have been extreme, and Gaspar Ruiz was a docile fellow. He had been an obedient soldier. His strength was like an enormous stone lying on the ground, ready to be hurled this way that by the hand that picks it up. “It is clear that he would tell his story to the people who gave him the shelter he needed. And he needed assistance badly. His wound was not dangerous, but his life was forfeited. The old Royalist being wrapped up in his laughing madness, the two women arranged a hiding-place for the wounded man in one of the huts amongst the fruit trees at the back of the house. That hovel, an abundance of clear water while the fever was on him, and some words of pity were all they could give. I suppose he had a share of what food there was. And it would be but little; a handful of roasted corn, perhaps a dish of beans, or a piece of bread with a few figs. To such misery were those proud and once wealthy people reduced.” VII GENERAL SANTIERRA was right in his surmise. Such was the exact nature of the assistance which Gaspar Ruiz, peasant son of peasants, received from the Royalist family whose daughter had opened the door--of their miserable refuge to his extreme distress. Her sombre resolution ruled the madness of her father and the trembling bewilderment of her mother. She had asked the strange man on the door-step, “Who wounded you?” “The soldiers, senora,” Gaspar Ruiz had answered, in a faint voice. “Patriots?” “Si.” “What for?” “Deserter,” he gasped, leaning against the wall under the scrutiny of her black eyes. “I was left for dead over there.” She led him through the house out to a small hut of clay and reeds, lost in the long grass of the overgrown orchard. He sank on a heap of maize straw in a corner, and sighed profoundly. “No one will look for you here,” she said, looking down at him. “Nobody comes near us. We too have been left for dead--here.” He stirred uneasily on his heap of dirty straw, and the pain in his neck made him groan deliriously.