The dark little lady on the settle by the fire sprang to her feet, and stood, tense. Her companion gave a swift frowning look of surprise. Sir Everard, gazing upon her also, drew a quick breath. “By the immortal gods,” said he to himself, “the drama is coming swifter than one could have imagined.” And, indeed, what the ancient quiet inn was destined to hold for the next ten minutes in the way of human passion, conflict, and tragedy, might happily be never as much as guessed at in the lifetime of most men. The landlord, his wig awry, his features discomposed, puffing and blustering, was vainly endeavouring to prevent the ingress of a small thick-set man, who though wrapped in a cloak and carrying some considerable burden, which he kept hidden under its folds, contrived by a single violent thrust of his shoulder, to send him spinning out of the way. The intruder advanced then at a headlong run, brought himself up short, flung back his cloak, and with the same gesture his hat, and stood revealed, swarthy, grizzled, livid, panting through dilated nostrils, glaring upon the woman by the settle. There was a great flare of colour on his broad chest, where, wound in a scarlet shawl, a little child of about two, with a head of curls of that dark copper hue destined to turn black with years, lay placidly asleep; the curve of a plump apricot cheek was all that was visible of its face. “Good heavens,” said Sir Everard, and at the sight of the sleeping innocence, something in his old heart began to lament. There was a moment’s extraordinary silence, broken only by the breathing of the man with the child, which hissed through his set teeth like the strokes of a saw. Then my Lord Sanquhar laughed. The man leaped as if he had been struck. A torrent of words broke from him--guttural, fierce, intolerably anguished. Sir Everard knew a little Spanish. The unfortunate was pleading: “Come back, come back! I will forgive all. Come back, Dolores, you cannot leave us. You cannot leave the little one. Come back in the name of God, in the name of His Holy Mother. _Madre di Dios_, look at her! You cannot leave that! Ah! unhappy one, you want gold and jewels. Was not our love your treasure? Is not our child a pearl? Look at her!” In singular contrast to the unrestrained violence of his outburst, the manner in which he held out the child was pure tender. The little one woke, stared about her with devouring black eyes of amazement, caught sight of the standing woman’s face and cried, joyfully beating the air with minute dusky hands, “Mamma, mamma!” At this a sob burst from the unhappy father, so deep and tortured it was as if it rent him. “Dolores, our little girl, she calls you ‘Mamma, mamma!’ Call again my angel! ‘Mamma, mamma!’” He went down on his knees and held out the babe, and as he did so she wailed. The mother, meanwhile, stood, insolent lids half closed, red lips thrust forward, tapping the floor with impatient foot, the embodiment of cruel disdain.