"I gave up hope when he went in. I waited to-night until dark before I came away from the moat." "Once to-night I thought I saw a light in the tower, Vardos." "If you did, Señorita Dolores, it was an unblessed flame." He sank into a chair weakly. "Once when I called to-night a wail came back to me. It sounded like a sigh of the damned. It may have been only the wind through the grated window. But it chilled my heart." "You are a silly coward," retorted Dolores. "But what then, Vardos?" "When I called the second time something moved in the turret of the keep, and my soul was joyful. Then, with a harsh cry, a black ugly bird flew from the turret, straight toward where the sun had set.... On my left, mind you, the sinister side,--the left--the left!" The castanets and music in the other room grew louder. "Oh, if the good Princess were only here!" moaned the girl. "She could help. She could do something." "She's on her way," he told her hopelessly, "but what can she do--what can anyone do, with the imps of darkness all about her?" "She would go straight into that castle after her brother. Ah, she is a great lady, with a great heart. Then will the villagers have it said that they let their own Princess go in alone, as they did their Prince?" "God forbid that it should come to that!" muttered the Prince's retainer, as he handed her the basket. "Good-night, señorita." As he started for the door the girl called after him. "Will you go again to-morrow, Vardos?" "Yes, señorita. I will go forever, until I know for sure that it is useless. Good-night." His words as he passed through the old portal were drowned by the cheering and applause which followed some especial favorite who had ended a song. Dolores looked sadly at the basket, the tears streaming down her face. She lifted the napkin, showing the simple but nourishing food which had been untouched by the missing Prince. She crossed herself, with a whispered prayer for his safety, crossing the room to the ancient pantry. The dreams of Pedro were rudely interrupted. The big door suddenly opened to admit a character very different from the weaklings who made his tavern their rendezvous. He was dark-skinned as the rest of the crew, red-faced as old Pedro (from the same faithful indulgence in vintages), not younger than forty, yet aggressive, vibrating with physical power, elasticity, and an overweening insolence. His manner of approach--and he entered this tavern with the same studied grace with which he swaggered into half a hundred others--seemed to indicate that he delighted in disorganizing and terrorizing whatever he might find established and orderly--wherever he might find it! Beholding the somnolent proprietor, he advanced quietly to the middle of the big room. Then, with malicious enjoyment of the effect, he banged his riding-crop violently upon the table, close to the tavern keeper's ear. "Hey, you Pedro!" he roared. "Wake up, you blockhead--wake up, I say!"