Leaning on a long staff, the descending figure, ignoring the others, advanced towards Una, who stood by herself beneath a low shelf of rock. Pausing within a few feet of the wondering girl, the veil was slowly lifted, revealing the seamed and wrinkled face and long flowing white hair of a woman whose great age was visible in every feature. In bygone times she would have been proclaimed a witch, although in her aspect there was nothing of the malevolence tradition attributes to witches. But there was the solemnity, the dramatic gesture of the sibyl--a being who is supposed to rank several grades higher than the witch--when, with uplifted hand, she commanded the attention of those to whom she deigned to speak. Drawn by something of benignity in her glance, and undaunted by her otherwise fantastic appearance, Una came forward to meet her--a movement that at once elicited a sign of approval. "She is one loca, one crazy woman," growled Miranda. "Of course she is dangerous!" exclaimed Mrs. Quayle. General Herran shrugged his shoulders and muttered vigorous profanities in Spanish. "Nonsense! The woman is probably slightly demented," was Leighton's judgment in the matter. Una, apparently, was without opinion as to the character or the intentions of the singular being whose gaze was fastened upon her, and whose outstretched arm singled her out from the rest. "Oh! if she would only speak in a language we could understand," she exclaimed. To the amazement of every one, the wish was gratified as soon as uttered. For the old woman--whether witch, sibyl, or lunatic--answered in plain English, an English somewhat defective in pronunciation, it is true, but correct enough in form to give evidence of an unusual amount of study on the part of the speaker. "I expected you. Come with me," she commanded. Astonishment silenced further comment. For the moment even Miranda had nothing to say. Then, recovering his usual assurance, he expressed himself with emphasis. "Caramba! She is one witch," he declared. The old woman shook her head impatiently. It was with Una alone she wanted to speak; she resented as interference any word from the others. Una, on her part, was strangely drawn to her. The odd dress, the air of mystery that repelled the others, increased her interest. She was impressed by her calm assumption of authority, convinced that she was there to help them. And then, a novel idea flashed through her mind. "Are you the queen?" she asked abruptly. The stern Indian features relaxed into the ghost of a smile, accompanied by a feeble chuckle from a lean and wrinkled throat. "I am Narva," she announced quietly--but whether "Narva" was the queen she did not deign to say. "Very well, my lady," argued Miranda, "but we want the queen." "Silence!" commanded Narva, turning for the first time from Una to the others. "Come with me," she repeated. "But why?" persisted the doctor; "what for we go with you, my senora, unless you are queen?"