"You are the most extraordinary young man I ever met with, Paul," said the Spaniard. "Where others of your age will be haunting the gaming houses, which, in spite of our laws for their suppression, secretly exist in New Orleans--where others would be nightly visitants of the theatre and the cafe, you are forever brooding over those stupid books." "Other men are perhaps born to fortune," answered Paul, with quiet dignity; "remember, dear sir, I have to achieve it." "Nay, Paul; how do you know what intentions a certain elderly Spanish gentleman may have with regard to a document called a will?" "Heaven forbid, sir," replied Paul, "that I should ever seek to fathom those intentions; and if you allude to yourself, permit me to take this opportunity of declaring that I would not accept one dollar, even were your misguided generosity to seek to bequeath it to me." "Santa Maria, Mr. Lisimon, and why not, pray?" asked Don Juan, laughing at the young man's impetuosity. "Because I would not rob her who has the sole claim upon your fortune." "My little Camillia; she will be rich enough in all conscience. Ah, Paul," added the Spaniard, looking somewhat searchingly at Lisimon, "it is a serious matter for a father to have such a daughter as Camillia Moraquitos to dispose of; a beauty and an heiress! Where in all New Orleans shall I find the man rich enough or noble to be her husband?" Paul Lisimon winced as if he had received a thrust from a dagger. "You will consult your daughter's heart, sir, I trust," he murmured hesitatingly, "even before the claims of wealth?" The old Spaniard's brow darkened, and his sombre black eyes fixed themselves upon Paul's face with a sinister and penetrating gaze that boded little good to the young man. No more was said upon the subject between the two men. Paul did not relax his industry by one iota after this conversation. The enervating pleasures of the rich could not win him from the stern routine of toil and study. Perhaps the reader has already guessed the fatal truth. Paul Lisimon, the unknown dependent upon a rich man's bounty, the penniless lad who knew not even the names of his parents, or of the country which had given him birth--Paul loved the peerless daughter of the wealthy Don Juan Moraquitos; and was it to be wondered that he loved her? From her childhood he had seen her daily, and had seen her every day more beautiful--more accomplished. She possessed, it is true, much of the pride of her father's haughty race; but that pride was tempered by the sweetness of Olympia Crivelli; and it was a high and generous sentiment that led the young girl to hate a meanness or falsehood with even a deeper loathing than she would have felt for a crime.