“Yes,” said Perez, “but since you see me living why do you ask that question? Should I not have died before harm could have come to Juana?” At that answer, the Marana seized the calloused hand of the old man, and kissed it, wetting it with the tears that flowed from her eyes--she who never wept! those tears were all she had most precious under heaven. “My good Perez!” she said at last. “But have you had no soldiers quartered in your house?” “Only one,” replied the Spaniard. “Fortunately for us the most loyal of men; a Spaniard by birth, but now an Italian who hates Bonaparte; a married man. He is ill, and gets up late and goes to bed early.” “An Italian! What is his name?” “Montefiore.” “Can it be the Marquis de Montefiore--” “Yes, Senora, he himself.” “Has he seen Juana?” “No,” said Dona Lagounia. “You are mistaken, wife,” said Perez. “The marquis must have seen her for a moment, a short moment, it is true; but I think he looked at her that evening she came in here during supper.” “Ah, let me see my daughter!” “Nothing easier,” said Perez; “she is now asleep. If she has left the key in the lock we must waken her.” As he rose to take the duplicate key of Juana’s door his eyes fell by chance on the circular gleam of light upon the black wall of the inner courtyard. Within that circle he saw the shadow of a group such as Canova alone has attempted to render. The Spaniard turned back. “I do not know,” he said to the Marana, “where to find the key.” “You are very pale,” she said. “And I will show you why,” he cried, seizing his dagger and rapping its hilt violently on Juana’s door as he shouted,-- “Open! open! open! Juana!” Juana did not open, for she needed time to conceal Montefiore. She knew nothing of what was passing in the salon; the double portieres of thick tapestry deadened all sounds. “Madame, I lied to you in saying I could not find the key. Here it is,” added Perez, taking it from a sideboard. “But it is useless. Juana’s key is in the lock; her door is barricaded. We have been deceived, my wife!” he added, turning to Dona Lagounia. “There is a man in Juana’s room.” “Impossible! By my eternal salvation I say it is impossible!” said his wife. “Do not swear, Dona Lagounia. Our honor is dead, and this woman--” He pointed to the Marana, who had risen and was standing motionless, blasted by his words, “this woman has the right to despise us. She saved our life, our fortune, and our honor, and we have saved nothing for her but her money--Juana!” he cried again, “open, or I will burst in your door.” His voice, rising in violence, echoed through the garrets in the roof. He was cold and calm. The life of Montefiore was in his hands; he would wash away his remorse in the blood of that Italian.