He half expected to see Chitta among their womenfolk: Chitta, of whom he would so lately have said that he never wanted to see her again! The farmers all gravely bowed to him, and Cartaret, of course, bowed in return. Finally it occurred to him that he might get news from one of them and so, one by one, he would stop them with an inquiry as to whether they spoke French. A dozen failures were convincing him of his folly, when their result was ruined by the appearance of a rosy-cheeked young man in a wide hat and swathed legs, who appeared to be more prosperous than his neighbors and who replied to Cartaret in a French that the American could understand. "Then do sit down and have a drink with me," urged Cartaret. "I'm a stranger here and I'd be greatly obliged to you if you would." The young man agreed. He explained complacently that the folk of Alava, though invariably hospitable, generally distrusted strangers, but that he had had advantages, having been sent to the Jesuit school in St. Jean Pied-de-Port. He was the one chance in a thousand: he knew something of what Cartaret wanted to learn. Had he ever heard of a rose, a white rose, called the Azure Rose? Had he not heard! It was one of the foolish superstitions of the folk of Northern Alava, that rose. His own mother, being from the North--God rest her soul--had not been exempt: when he was sent into France to school, she had pinned an Azure Rose against his heart in order to insure his return home. "Then it grows in the North?" "For the most part, yes, monsieur, and even there it is something rare: that, without doubt, is why it is esteemed so dearly by the common folk. It grows only near the snows, the high snows. There are but few white peaks there, and on them a few such roses. The country beyond Alegria is the place of all places for them. If monsieur wants to find the Azure Rose, he should go to the wild country beyond Alegria." "Do you know that country?" asked Cartaret. The young man shrugged. He ought to know it: he had been brought up there. But it was no place for strangers; it was very wild. "I wonder," said Cartaret, hope shining in his brown eyes--"I wonder if you ever heard of a family there by the name of Urola?" The farmer shook his head. Urola? No, he had never heard of Urola. But stay: there was the great family, the Ethenard-Eskurola d'Alegria. Eskurola was somewhat like Urola; indeed, Urola was part of Eskurola. Perhaps, monsieur---- Cartaret was leaning far over the table. "Is there," he asked, "a young lady in that family named Vitoria?" The farmer reflected. "There was one daughter," he said; "a little girl when I was a lad. She was the Lady Dolorez. She had, however, many names: people of great houses among us have many names, monsieur, and Vitoria is not uncommonly among them. Vitoria? Yes, I think she was also called Vitoria." "Did she speak English?"