"Ave Maria purissima! I can't say--there is something that speaks to me of thought, reflection, care beyond your years." "It may well be so, dear senora; I have never known a relative in the world; I have been an orphan from infancy, and----" "And now," said she, presenting him with her hand, "you are a soldier who comes to fight for Spain!" "And for _you_, too, senora," he added, as he touched her fingers with his lips, and with a devotion that somewhat surprised himself. "But are you afraid of me, as old Donna Ximena was?" "No--why do you think I am?" "You sign the cross so often." "Because, senor--excuse me, but the morning air is excessively chilly here, and I yawn frequently." "And you do so?----" "For fear Satanas should dart down my throat unseen and unfelt. It is a belief--superstition you may deem it--that we have in Castile; though you, perhaps, who have, unfortunately, been educated among heretics, may know neither the dread nor the holy sign. I know that it is not used in your country, senor--because I can read." "I should think so," said Quentin, amused by her simplicity; "is not every lady educated?" "No--not in Spain." "Why?" "Lest, if handsome, they should write to their lovers." "And yet, senora, they had the rashness to teach you." "Do you mean that I am handsome, or that I must have lovers?" "I mean both--that being the first of necessity leads to your possessing the last." "My poor father, the good old professor, who was so barbarously slain by the French, was careful to teach me many things, though our female literary accomplishments are usually confined to our prayers and rehearsing legends of the saints, songs of the Cid Rodrigo, or by Lope de la Vega. In England I believe you have women who could lead the Junta or shine in the Cortes itself; but what matters their education, when it only serves to confirm their heresies? And now, senor, place the bota in the alforja, and sling that over your shoulder; let us go, and I shall be your guide to Villa de Maciera." CHAPTER XXVII. THE VILLA DE MACIERA. "Innocence makes him careless now. * * * * Youth hath its whimsies, nor are we To examine all their paths too strictly: We went awry ourselves when we were young." _Old Tragedy._ Donna Isidora had now divested herself of the large and loose woollen weed in which she had travelled yesterday, and threw it gracefully over her arm. In her short but amply flounced skirt she tripped--as we are writing of a Spanish girl we should have it glided--along by the side of Quentin, who moderated his pace to suit hers. The rain of last night had completely laid the dust; the morning air was cool and delightful, and save a Franciscan friar of Medellin, travelling like themselves on foot, with a canvas wallet slung on his back and a long knotted staff in his hand, they met no one.