"Henarez is the Moorish name of the Soria family, who are, they say, descendants of the Abencerrages, converted to Christianity. The old Duke and his two sons were with the King. The eldest, the present Duke de Soria, has just had all his property, titles, and dignities confiscated by King Ferdinand, who in this way avenges a long-standing feud. The Duke made a huge mistake in consenting to form a constitutional ministry with Valdez. Happily, he escaped from Cadiz before the arrival of the Duc d'Angouleme, who, with the best will in the world, could not have saved him from the King's wrath." This information gave me much food for reflection. I cannot describe to you the suspense in which I passed the time till my next lesson, which took place this morning. During the first quarter of an hour I examined him closely, debating inwardly whether he were duke or commoner, without being able to come to any conclusion. He seemed to read my fancies as they arose and to take pleasure in thwarting them. At last I could endure it no longer. Putting down my book suddenly, I broke off the translation I was making of it aloud, and said to him in Spanish: "You are deceiving us. You are no poor middle-class Liberal. You are the Duke de Soria!" "Mademoiselle," he replied, with a gesture of sorrow, "unhappily, I am not the Duc de Soria." I felt all the despair with which he uttered the word "unhappily." Ah! my dear, never should I have conceived it possible to throw so much meaning and passion into a single word. His eyes had dropped, and he dared no longer look at me. "M. de Talleyrand," I said, "in whose house you spent your years of exile, declares that any one bearing the name of Henarez must either be the late Duc de Soria or a lacquey." He looked at me with eyes like two black burning coals, at once blazing and ashamed. The man might have been in the torture-chamber. All he said was: "My father was in truth the servant of the King of Spain." Griffith could make nothing of this sort of lesson. An awkward silence followed each question and answer. "In one word," I said, "are you a nobleman or not?" "You know that in Spain even beggars are noble." This reticence provoked me. Since the last lesson I had given play to my imagination in a little practical joke. I had drawn an ideal portrait of the man whom I should wish for my lover in a letter which I designed giving to him to translate. So far, I had only put Spanish into French, not French into Spanish; I pointed this out to him, and begged Griffith to bring me the last letter I had received from a friend of mine. "I shall find out," I thought, from the effect my sketch has on him, "what sort of blood runs in his veins." I took the paper from Griffith's hands, saying: "Let me see if I have copied it rightly." For it was all in my writing. I handed him the paper, or, if you will, the snare, and I watched him while he read as follows: