He had reached the vicinity of Trinity's bold Campanile when this bolt went home, and the effect was so great as to actually bring him to a full stop, with held breath. "By Jove! to think I never suspected the amazing truth when talking with her. Now I know it, I can swear to it--the same voice, which I have never heard equaled. And she has done this thing for _me_, Roderic Owen, whom possibly she has reason to hate. Heavens! there is some fatality back of it all, and we are but puppets on life's great stage, playing our little parts automatically. God alone sees the end. Yes, that was Georgia de Brabant, the charming maid of San Juan, over whom half the Spanish officers raved, about whom more than a few duels were fought, and with whose fate my own life thread became entangled in a way that has forever prevented my loving cousin Cleo or any other woman. The past then is _not_ dead--again she enters my life--she comes like an angel of light to save me from being made the victim of a foul plot. That would indicate anything but hate. What lies before me mortal cannot guess, but my duty is clear, and come weal come woe, I am bound to serve my country first, last and always, no matter what the sacrifice. And ye gods, I kissed the hand whereon perhaps dazzled _his_ rings." CHAPTER II. ALAS! FOR THE GAME THAT FAILED TO WORK. Evidently Roderic Owen was disturbed by this meeting more than he would have cared to confess. When ghosts that are supposed to have been laid for all time come back to haunt us, memory plays havoc with the strongest resolutions. Owen lived again in the past--his ears seemed to drink in the music and merriment of the gay Spanish-American capital--he saw once more a face that had been enshrined in his heart as queen of the realm, and somehow the memory was not so unpleasant. Instead of groaning over the disasters of the past he found himself unconsciously building new _chateaux d'Espagne_. Hope ever abides in the human breast--though daily overthrown it rises again and again, Phœnix like from the ashes, and builds anew. From the shadow of Trinity College and the Bank of Ireland, formerly the Irish House of Parliament, it was but a short distance to his hotel, the luxurious Shelbourne. Having once entered the caravansary he cast his eyes around as though seeking some one. A number of gentlemen lounged near the booking offices, while on the first landing of the wide stairs among palms and flowers ladies could be seen. It was a bright picture, entirely foreign to the usual run of transatlantic hotels to which Owen was accustomed. A pair of bright eyes detected his arrival and a fair hand beckoned him upward. Time was of value to him, but when beauty demands attendance other things may wait, and he believed he could spare a few minutes at any rate.