With soft voice and motherly caress, the señora soothed the heart-broken Rava; her words—perhaps quite as well—without meaning to the girl, but her tones replete with sympathy. Rava clung to her as to a last hope, becoming gradually more calm, until a knock at the door stirred her terror afresh. Releasing her, the señora sprang up. Grimly she stripped her battle-axe, and stepped to the door. The servant recoiled. "Ah, ’tis thou!" the lady exclaimed, and received the broth. The strength it gave aided her efforts to restore calm to the despairing captive, and in an hour Rava slept. Her guardian sat long, nursing a waxing enmity for the authors of the maiden’s sorrows, and for Rogelio in particular; then, having with fell purpose placed her weapon conveniently at hand, she lay down beside her _protégée_. She awoke early, astonished to find Rava kneeling with hands clasped in prayer, a silver crucifix before her on her pillow, the Latin periods, in her quaint, hesitating accents, sounding strangely. The señora joined her orison, then turned to her in surprise. "A Christian, thou?" she asked, taking her hand. Rava understood the word, and assented eagerly. "Cristoval!" she said, and touched the crucifix, her eyes filling at the name. "Ah! Peralta! The stout freebooter with the good voice. I know him," and the señora nodded emphatically. "Art baptized, child?" This word was familiar also, and Rava nodded her head; then said eagerly: "Father Tendilla! Father Tendilla!" "Father Tendilla!" exclaimed Señora Bolio. "Thou knowest him? Blessed thought!—we’ll send a word to Father Tendilla. Aha, Rogelio, sniffling obesity, we shall see! We’ll choke thee with thine own unholy purpose, or I’m not Bolio. Rogelio, indeed! If, now, Pedro will but come!" She patted Rava’s arm reassuringly and arose.