Now I trembled afresh, but spoke on boldly. “Before I answer, Madam, forgive me if I ask another question. Is this still your name?” “It is still my name, I am no married woman,” she answered, and for a moment the sky seemed to reel above me and the ground to heave beneath my feet like the lava crust of Xaca. But as yet I did not reveal myself, for I wished to learn if she still loved my memory. “Señora,” I said, “I am a Spaniard who served in the Indian wars of Cortes, of which perhaps you have heard.” She bowed her head and I went on. “In those wars I met a man who was named Teule, but who had another name in former days, so he told me on his deathbed some two years ago.” “What name?” she asked in a low voice. “Thomas Wingfield.” Now Lily moaned aloud, and in her turn caught at the pales to save herself from falling. “I deemed him dead these eighteen years,” she gasped; “drowned in the Indian seas where his vessel foundered.” “I have heard say that he was shipwrecked in those seas, señora, but he escaped death and fell among the Indians, who made a god of him and gave him the daughter of their king in marriage,” and I paused. She shivered, then said in a hard voice, “Continue, sir; I listen to you.” “My friend Teule took the part of the Indians in the wars, as being the husband of one of their princesses he must do in honour, and fought bravely for them for many years. At length the town that he defended was captured, his one remaining child was murdered, his wife the princess slew herself for sorrow, and he himself was taken into captivity, where he languished and died.” “A sad tale, sir,” she said with a little laugh—a mournful laugh that was half choked by tears. “A very sad tale, señora, but one which is not finished. While he lay dying, my friend told me that in his early life he had plighted troth with a certain English maid, named—” “I know the name—continue.” “He told me that though he had been wedded, and loved his wife the princess, who was a very royal woman, that many times had risked her life for his, ay, even to lying at his side upon the stone of sacrifice and of her own free will, yet the memory of this maiden to whom he was once betrothed had companioned him through life and was strong upon him now at its close. Therefore he prayed me for our friendship’s sake to seek her out when I returned to Europe, should she still live, and to give her a message from him, and to make a prayer to her on his behalf.” “What message and what prayer?” Lily whispered. “This: that he loved her at the end of his life as he had loved her at its beginning; that he humbly prayed her forgiveness because he had broken the troth which they two swore beneath the beech at Ditchingham.” “Sir,” she cried, “what do you know of that?” “Only what my friend told me, señora.” “Your friendship must have been close and your memory must be good,” she murmured.