"That was ill-luck for you, Señor," said Fuentes lowering his point. "But who can be sure of himself in this confounded twilight?" He swung half-about towards the river-wall, with a glance across at the city, where already a few lights began to twinkle in the dusk. And, so turning, he seemed on a sudden to catch his breath. And almost on that instant the youngster, who had fallen back disconcerted, sprang forward in a fresh fury and gripped his comrade by the arm, pointing excitedly towards a group of houses above the fortifications, whence from a high upper storey, deeply recessed between flanking walls, a light redder than the rest twinkled across to us. "The proof!" cried he. "She knew you would be here, and that is the proof! _You_ at least I will kill before I leave this garden, as I came to kill you to-night." In his new gust of fury he seemed to have forgotten his discomfiture--to have forgotten even the existence of Fuentes, who now faced them both with a smile which (unless the dusk distorted it) had some bitterness in its raillery. "If I mistake not, Sirs, the light you were discussing signals to us from an upper chamber in the Lesser Street of the Virgins. It can only be seen from this garden and from the far end of it, where we now stand. I will not ask you who lights it now: but she who lit it in former days was named Luisa. Oh yes, she was circumspect--a good maid then, and no doubt a good maid now: in that street of the Virgins there was at least one prudent. Youth flies, _ay de mi_! But youth also, as I perceive to-night, repeats itself; and Luisa--who was always circumspect, though a conspirator--apparently repeats herself too." "Luisa? What do you know of Luisa?" stammered the younger man. The name seemed to have fallen on him like the touch of an enchanter's wand, stiffening him to stone. Like a statue he stood there, peering forward with a white face. "My friend"--Fuentes turned to me--"be so good as to unstrap the case yonder and hand me my guitar." He laid his foil on the table, took the guitar from me, and, having seated himself on the bench, tried the strings softly, all the while looking up with grave raillery at the two young men. "What do I know of Luisa? Listen!" Under his voice he began a light-hearted little song, which in English might run like this, or as nearly as I can contrive-- _My love, she lives in Salamanca All up a dozen flights of stairs; There with the sparrows night and morning Under the roof she chirps her prayers. They say her wisdom comes from heaven-- So near the clouds and chimneys meet-- I rather think Luisa's sparrows Fetch it aloft there from the street!_