She had shrunk back as though alarmed at the prospect, but his _debonair_ manner, together with the absurdity of the fear that almost overwhelmed her seemed to force her to meet his friendly advances, and a little hand crept shyly out from among the dusky robes, advancing half way. Roderic Owen clasped it in his own, and was conscious of a most remarkable sensation that seemed to flash along his arm until it finally brought up in the region of his heart. It may have been electricity, or some kindred element, but all the same he considered it exceeding queer. Perhaps in his warmth he pressed her hand so that the setting of her rings inflicted pain. At any rate she gave a little exclamation. "Forgive me; I forgot your rings, idiot that I am," and with a gallantry he must have inherited from ancestors who once ruled in this ever green isle he hastily raised the bruised digits to his lips. This caused her to snatch away her hand and with a hasty "_buenos noches_" hurry to meet a tramcar coming from the monument. Before Owen could fully recover from his surprise she had entered the double decked vehicle of transportation, and was lost to his sight. He stood there, leaning against the stone railing of O'Connell bridge and looking after the car, a very much puzzled man. "Ah!" he ejaculated, as snatching out his handkerchief he waved it vigorously in response to the one that fluttered from the open window of the humble tramcar. Then the man from over the sea mechanically drew out his cigar case, selected a weed, struck a match on the stone coping of the bridge, and began to puff away as though he might in this manner free his brain of the mental cobwebs that seemed to clog his clear reasoning. At the same time he started in the direction of Trinity College, swinging a stout cane, and musing upon the singular events that had on this night opened a new chapter in his experience. And somehow it seemed to the adventurous Owen that they bore a definite connection with his past--again he heard that voice sounding as with the music of sweet birds--its dim echo, so familiar and yet eluding his grasp like a fluttering will-o'-the-wisp, how exasperating it was. Where had he met this seeming nun in the sable robe, and who was she? Then suddenly he saw a great light--the confused memories drifted into one clear vision. Again he stood on the brilliantly lighted Grand Plaza of the Porto Rican capital with surging crowds of officers and civilians around him, while a really excellent military band played the beautiful, voluptuous airs of sunny Spain--again he heard a voice, sweet as that of a lark, floating upon the night air from an open window, and singing a serenade--Roderic was carried back two years in his life to scenes that had been marked by stormy passion, and the realization gave him a tremendous shock.