"Carlos Stuardo soy, Qui siendo amor mi guia, Al cielo de Espana voy, Por ver mi estrella Maria." While she sang, Quentin thought of the old Jacobite enthusiasm of Lady Winifred and Lord Rohallion, and how they would have admired alike the song and the singer; and while his eyes were fixed on her soft pale face and thick downcast eyelashes, he neither heard the accompaniment Baltasar beat with a pair of castanets, or by the Padre Trevino with the haft of a remarkably ugly knife, which seemed alike his favourite weapon and plaything. In a few minutes after this they had all separated for the night, and Quentin, without undressing, as he proposed to start early on the following morning, stretched on a hard pallet and muffled in his great coat, with his sabre and pistols under his head, soon sank into slumber, the sound, deep slumber induced by intense fatigue; and from this not even the horrors of the recent massacre, the louring visage of the suspicious Trevino, the voice, the eyes, of the lovely young donna, or any other memory, could disturb him. CHAPTER XXV. THE JOURNEY. "Meanwhile the gathering clouds obscure the skies, From pole to pole the forky lightning flies, The rattling thunders roll, and Juno pours A wintry deluge down and sounding showers; The company dispersed to coverts ride, And seek the homely cots or mountain side." Æneis iv. From this long and dreamless sleep Quentin Kennedy started and awoke next morning, but not betimes, as the sun's altitude, when shining on the whitewashed walls of the posada, informed him. He sprang up and proceeded to make a hasty toilet. "Breakfast, a guide, and then to be gone!" thought he, joyfully. On issuing from his scantily-furnished chamber into the large room of the posada, or rather what was once the posada, he found a number of the guerillas busy making up ball-cartridges. Heaps of loose powder lay on the oak table, and the nonchalant makers were smoking their cigars over it as coolly as if it were only brickdust or oatmeal. The guitar that hung by its broad scarlet riband from a peg on the wall, brought to memory all the episodes of last night, and Quentin sighed when reflecting that a girl so lovely as its owner should be lost among such society, for to him, those patriot volunteers of his Majesty Ferdinand VII. had very much the air and aspect of banditti.