At which he opens his eyes and remarks: “Your Guido Amati; he was reported dead after the battle on the ice, I think.” “Yes, but he has recovered from his wounds. Oh, it would take a great deal to kill him! Remember his march across the Drowned Lands up there. You passed the place to-day,” she points her hand. “Yes, I recollect. That was a feat worthy of the Cid,” says Alva, who, above all, is a military tactician. “Ah! then give me to the Cid; the Cid would be worthy even of the daughter of Alva. If Guido was worthy of the Cid he is worthy of me!” And with pleadings, coaxings and caresses Hermoine wins from this man who she thinks can refuse her naught, promise that he will grant her hand to Colonel Guido Amati de Medina. “Now you must not go,” she pleads. “He is coming here this evening. You must see him. You must make him as happy as I am. Father, I never loved you until now.” “Oho!—If I had refused I suppose you would have hated me.” “I never think of hate with you; but then, you never do refuse. And as you never say me nay, you’ll stay and meet him. Give him your blessing; father, promise me as you love me, you will give Guido Amati as my promised husband, your blessing.” “Then if I must do so, and you say I must,” mutters the Duke, a tremble on his lips and a quiver in his eyelids, “I must first ride on to Lillo and send from there a message to Sancho d’Avila.” “You’ll come back? He will be here at nine. You will come back—promise it, swear it!” “I promise by this kiss.” “Then take two to make sure,” prattles Miss Hermoine with happy eyes. A moment after his escort being ready, pursued by kisses thrown from fairy hands, the Duke mounts charger and canters off from the villa of his daughter, whose eyes are streaming with happy tears and whose lips are murmuring: “Father and future husband both together. To-night will be a happy one for me!” Alva rides on to Lillo, and having word with Mondragon, the commandant, charges him to send courier at once with a note he writes to Sancho d’Avila, commandant of the Citadel at Antwerp. Then with a father’s natural instinct of curiosity in regard to coming son-in-law, Don Fernando, chatting with the officer in command, one of his favorites, says: “Mondragon, do you know a certain Guido Amati, Colonel in Romero’s Legion?” “Of course, your excellency, he was under me before he went to Holland.” “Ah! Tell me of him.” “That’s little good, except that he was the bravest of the brave, and as fine a swordsman as ever handled Toledo blade; but a more undisciplined, gambling, rake and debauchee I never met, and I’m an old campaigner.” “A debauchee undisciplined, a roué drunkard,” gasps His Highness, his face growing even more pallid than is usual to his sallow cheeks. “You are sure you know what you say, Mondragon?” “Certainly, I knew him well. But what matters it? Guido Amati is dead.” “Impossible; though I heard the rumor.” “It’s marked upon the muster-rolls of Romero’s command.”