Be that as it may, Isidora de Saldos was a singularly lovely girl, in somewhere about her eighteenth year, a very ripe age in the sunny land of Castile. Her eyes indeed were marvellous, they were so soft and dark, and alternately so sparkling, languishing, and expressive of earnestness, all the more striking from the pale complexion of her little face. In their deep setting and with their long thick upper and lower lashes, those seductive eyes seemed to be black, while, in reality, they were of the darkest grey. Her dark brown hair was long, rich in colour, and unrivalled in softness. It was of that texture which, unhappily, never lasts long, and which often, ere five-and-twenty comes, has lost alike its length and profusion. Her Spanish dress became her blooming years, her figure (which was rather petite), and the piquant character of her beauty. It consisted of a scarlet velvet corset, and short but ample skirts of alternate black and scarlet flounces, all very full; slippers of Cordovan leather, with high heels, and scarlet stockings, clocked almost to the knee, over the tightest of ankles. A white muslin handkerchief, prettily disposed over her bosom, a high comb at the back of her head, round which her magnificent dark hair was gathered and fastened by a long gold pin, that looked unpleasantly like a poniard (indeed, it could be used as such), with silver bracelets on her slender wrists, long pendants that glittered at her tiny ears, a large medal bearing the image of the Madonna hung round her neck, and a black lace mantilla, depending from the comb and flowing over all, completed her attire. The medal was of pure gold, and bore the inscription, "_O Marie, concue sans péché, priez pour nous qui avons recours à vous_," and was, as she afterwards informed Quentin, the gift of the Padre Trevino, who found it on the body of a Frenchman whom he had shot near Albuquerque. "Did you ever taste a real Spanish olla, senor?" asked Baltasar, as the covers were removed, and the odour of a steaming and savoury dish pervaded the apartment. Quentin declared that he had not. "Then thou shalt taste it to-night. My sister is a famous cook," said Baltasar; "an olla she excels in--it was the favourite dish of our old father, the professor at Salamanca, and is the most noble dish in the world!" "If Spanish, it must be," said Quentin, flatteringly. "True," said Baltasar, gravely, while giving each of his enormous moustaches an upward twist; "we consider everything Spanish supremely good." "We are rather a proud people, you see, senor," said Donna Isidora, laughing; "and so far is pride carried, that to touch royalty is to die." "Manuel Godoy touched royalty pretty often," said Trevino, with a grim smile, "and we never heard that Her Majesty of Spain resented it particularly." "Did you ever hear of the escape of the sister of Philip III., senor?" "I regret to say, Don Baltasar, that I never heard of Philip himself," replied Quentin.