“Come, come, tell it all”--insisted the lady, piqued with lively curiosity--“who is your sweetheart?” “Sweetheart?--No; indeed I would rather----” “Yes, indeed; who?” “I say she is not my sweetheart--Perhaps----” “Finish, man--perhaps what?” “She may come to be----” “And, who is the girl? Do I know her?” “Very well.” While Antón was silent, Doña Socorro thought over the riddle, and, after some minutes, declared: “I’m sure I don’t know, child; give me a clew.” “She is your relative.” The lady passed over in her thought, to whom Antón could allude, and could not imagine which one of her relatives, the poor and obscure youth presumed to win. Suddenly, like a flash, came the remembrance of the words, which he had pronounced when she invited him to remain at the party; but it was a thing so unheard of, so unthinkable, that she dared not mention the name, but desired to assure herself, indirectly, that she was not on a false trail. “Was she at the party last night?” she asked. Antón replied by a nod of his head. The lady was confounded; her face lengthened, her eyes rounded, her mouth opened, and she exclaimed: “Rosalba!--well, but, you are a fool!” Antón was stupefied; it seemed as if the ground sank under him and he was raised into the air. Why, was he a fool? Doña Socorro saw the boy’s emotion and something like pity stirred within her. Certain that, later, this senseless delirium would vanish, she said to him: “Poor child! You will get over it. When you decide to accept my offer, you know that I am here. Think well over it. I wish only your own good.” Antón, overwhelmed, could scarcely murmur a “thank you, madam,” rose half tremblingly and walked away, with bowed head. Doña Socorro remained absorbed in reflection. “To think of it--but the child aims high--to aspire to Rosalba--he is handsome--who would have thought it--decidedly, he is a fool.” * * * * * Doña Socorro, attentive to what was passing in the Republican ranks, prompt to aid the triumph of her cause, had displayed all the resources of her astuteness to complete the demoralization of the remnants of the brigade and to foment desertion. Her efforts were meeting abundant success and in seeing the resources of war which had been grouped around Dueñas, completely disorganized, she was greatly rejoiced. Not content, however, with such signal successes, when she saw the companies of the coast guard,--the most loyal to the Republic--evacuate the villa, to the loyalty of which the Méndez brothers entrusted themselves for some hours, she had an inspiration, truly worthy of her brain. She conceived the idea of capturing the two officers, to offer to Arévalo, as a prized trophy. How to realize it? It was not beyond her power--capable as she was, of all in the domain of evil. There was Antón Pérez; Rosalba would be the incentive. “Paulina! Paulina!” she called, and a servant appeared.