While his fair prisoners were thus exchanging thought and speech, Santander, in the _sala grande_ outside, was doing his best to pass the time pleasantly. An effort it was costing him, however, and one far from successful. His last lingering hope of being beloved by Luisa Valverde was gone--completely destroyed by what had late come to his knowledge--and henceforth his love for her could only be as that of Tarquin for Lucretia. Nor would he have any Collatinus to fear--no rival, martial or otherwise--since his master, Santa Anna, had long since given up his designs on Don Ignacio's daughter, exclusively bending himself to his scheme of conquest--now revenge--over the Condesa. But though relieved in this regard, and likely to have his own way, Carlos Santander was anything but a happy man after making that arrest; instead, almost as miserable as either of those he had arrested. Still keeping up a pretence of gallantry, he could not command their company in the drawing-room where he had installed himself; nor, under the circumstances, would it have been desirable. He was not alone, however; Major Ramirez and the other officers of his escort being there with him; and, as in like cases, they were enjoying themselves. However considerate for the feelings of the ladies, they made free enough with the house itself, its domestics, larder, and _cocina_, and, above all, the cellar. Its binns were inquired into, the best wine ordered to be brought from them, as though they who gave the order were the guests of an hotel and Don Ignacio's drawing-room a drinking saloon. Outside in the courtyard, and further off by the coach-house, similar scenes were transpiring. Never had that quiet _casa de campo_ known so much noise. For the soldiers had got among them--it was the house of a _rebel_, and therefore devoted to ruin. CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT. THE COCHERO DOGGED.