This praise of the dead man in whose shoes he stands drives from Guy’s tongue a confession that has been almost upon it once or twice in these last two days. He fears the effect of revelation upon his sweetheart and thinks tremblingly: “God help me if she loves my name, not me!” Perhaps later in the evening he might tell his story to Hermoine, for he thinks it almost a justice to her that she know the truth—did not an incident come to these two that seems trivial, but has greater effect than either guesses upon their lives. Guy has laughingly inquired about the Countess de Pariza. “Since last night she has not spoken to me. She keeps to her own suite of apartments,” answers the young lady. “That woman, if she dared, would betray me; as it is I pity her Moorish slave girls. You know when papa gave me present of Zora he made Alida gift to the Countess de Pariza. But I liked Alida best, and to take her away from her tyrant—for that’s what my duenna is—you needn’t stay my lips at every word, though it is pleasant, Guido mio—I have succeeded in exchanging their services and Alida waits on me and Zora on the Countess. It was a bargain, though no writing passed between us. But to-day, this very morning, she claimed again the duty of Alida. Is it to revenge herself on her?” she goes on intensely. “If so; if she puts hands on the poor girl, let her beware of Hermoine de Alva.” As she speaks the girl, springing from Guy’s arms, starts up and whispers: “What’s that? Hark! My heaven, it is Alida!” For a faint wailing sigh seems to come floating to the room from some distant apartment. “It is Alida! That coward has struck her!” she cries as the sound of agony comes floating in again. And in a flash, with blazing eyes and vengeance on her face, Hermoine de Alva darts from the room, Guy following her, his feet scarce keeping up with her rapid flight. Turning up a passage, he finds himself—for the girl has hurriedly dashed open a door—gazing on a curious picture. It is the chamber of the duenna; in it stands Doña de Pariza, with vicious whip upraised, and cowering before her crouches Alida, the Moorish slave. But the lash does not descend. With the spring of a young tigress Hermoine plucks the whip from the astounded Countess. “How dare you intrude into my chamber?” cries the duenna. “How dare you strike one that belongs to me?” “Your pardon, Doña de Alva,” sneers La Pariza. “This girl is the gift of your father to me. Give me my whip, that I may continue my correction.” “Never! Alida is mine; you made her over to me in words; she is mine to love, mine to protect, she is my Alida. Cruel one! you have asked for your whip! You shall have it!” And an avenging goddess is standing over the shuddering duenna, who gives an affrighted scream. But Guy has hand upon the white arm that is upraised.