He flung the corner of his cloak over his left shoulder, and preceded me to the door of my room; then, after a “God guard you, Señor,” continued along the colonnade. Before I had shut my door it occurred to me that he was going on towards the part of the gallery on which Seraphina’s apartments opened. Why? What could he want there? I am not so much ashamed of my sudden suspicion of him--one did not know whom to trust--but I am a little ashamed to confess that, kicking off my shoes, I crept out instantly to spy upon him. This part of the house was dark in the inky flood of shadow; and before I had come to a recess in the wall, I heard the discreet scratching of a finger-nail on a door. A streak of light darted and disappeared, like a signal for the murmurs of two voices. I recognized the woman’s at once. It belonged to one of Seraphina’s maids, a pretty little quadroon--a favourite of hers--called La Chica. She had slipped out, and her twitter-like whispering reached me in the still solemnity of the quadrangle. She addressed Castro as “His Worship” at every second word, for the saturnine little man, in his unbrushed cloak and battered hat, was immensely respected by the household. Had he not been sent to Europe to fetch Don Carlos? He was in the confidence of the masters--their humble friend. The little tire-woman twittered of her mistress. The senorita had been most anxious all day--ever since she had heard the friar had come. Castro muttered: “Tell the Excellency that her orders have been obeyed. The English _caballero_ has been warned. I have been sleepless in my watchfulness over the guest of the house, as the senorita has desired--for the honour of the Riegos. Let her set her mind at ease.” The girl then whispered to him with great animation. Did not his worship think that it was the senorita’s heart which was not at ease? Then the quadrangle became dumb in its immobility, half sheen, half night, with its arcades, the soothing plash of water, with its expiring lights, in a suggestion of Castilian severity, enveloped by the exotic softness of the air. “What folly!” uttered Castro’s sombre voice. “You women do not mind how many corpses come into your imaginings of love. The mere whisper of such a thing------” She murmured swiftly. He interrupted her. “Thine eyes, La Chica--thine eyes see only the silliness of thine own heart. Think of thine own lovers, _nina. Por Dios!_”--he changed to a tone of severe appreciation--“thy foolish face looks well by moonlight.” I believe he was chucking her gravely under the chin. I heard her soft, gratified cooing in answer to the compliment; the streak of light flashed on the polished shaft of a pillar; and Castro went on, going round to the staircase, evidently so as not to pass again before my open door.