Together they returned to the castle. The little knot of people anxiously gathered around them. To their excited questionings the señora replied: "All's well that ends well." "Your meaning, señora?" asked one. "That we've nothing to do now--but disperse the fog." Señora Valentino went to an upper corner of the castle, and into a room now seldom used. It had once been a sentinel chamber, and surveyed harbor and sea. More than once had she come to this place, time permitting, to revel in its loneliness. To-day the fog drew dark shades over the windows, enveloping the room in twilight. A slow wind was blowing, enough to move the casements. This augured well. Afternoon would, more than likely, see clear skyline. The woman's mood was to be alone. Closing the old door on its rusty hinges she turned the grating lock, and looked around with a sigh of satisfaction. The former governor had been an intimate of this room. Here he would steal away to read and dream. The furnishings were his, and he had not seen fit to disturb them when leaving for Mexico. On shelves were books of poems and romances. On the floor lay rugs of tasteful pattern and coloring. A few very good pictures were on the wall, while an easy chair or two stood invitingly. On one side jutted a stone fireplace, a pile of ashes on the hearth telling its own story. All these things were strangely out of keeping with the rest of the castle. In a cupboard the señora found wood and paper in abundance, placed there by the former governor, mindful of his comfort. "I'm cold," she shivered. "I'll call Lupincha and have a fire. No, I'll build it myself." The dry fuel and the paper, ignited by a flint spark, soon made flames that roared into the chimney. "Now it is cheery and warm. I'll look over one of Governor Moncada's romances till the fleet enters. Well, here's Don Quixote. He won't do--I've fought windmills myself--it's monotonous. And here, El Cid. Not to-day--more heroics. I want a book written about life as it is, not as it ought to be." She took up a manuscript, "Ode to Falling Rain," by the Governor himself. "Señor Moncada, why was it not an 'Ode to a Lifting Fog'? Because it is not, into the fire you go, you wrinkled bit of paper. Ah! it burns well despite the title. My brother-in-law once spoke of the governor as a fussy old curmudgeon. It would be interesting to know what the Señora Moncada thinks of the Señor Barcelo." A knock interrupted her musing. She kept perfectly quiet. Again, the knock, a little louder, a little more insistent. She snuggled closer into the chair. Suddenly the thought came to her that it might be Farquharson with some message of importance. She quickly unlocked the door. "Señora Valentino, may I come in? The peona Lupincha told me I would find you here."