Simply as Paul was dressed, in the loose linen coat and trousers suitable to the climate, with an open shirt collar of the finest cambric, under which was knotted a black silk handkerchief, there was something so distinguished in his appearance that Augustus Horton could not help wondering who this elegant stranger was who had found his way into Silas Craig's office. So great was his curiosity, that when his business with the lawyer was ended he lingered to ask a few questions about the strange clerk. "In goodness name, Craig," he said, as he lit a cigar from a box of allumerts upon the attorney's desk, "who is that young aristocrat whom you have secured as a pigeon for plucking, under pretense of teaching him the law?" "A young aristocrat!" "Yes, a young man I saw in the next office. A Spaniard, I should imagine, from his appearance. Very dark, with black eyes and curling black hair." Silas Craig laughed aloud. "An aristocrat!" he exclaimed, "why, surely you must mean Paul Lisimon?" "Who is Paul Lisimon?" "Why, I thought you were a constant visitor at Villa Moraquitos!" "I am so," replied Augustus. "And you have never met Paul Lisimon?" "Never, man! Don't question me, but answer me. Who is this Paul Lisimon?" "My articled pupil, a young Mexican, a protege of Don Juan's who is studying for the law." "Who is he, and where did he come from?" asked Augustus, eagerly. "That no one knows," answered Craig; "the brother-in-law of Don Juan Moraquitos, Don Tomaso Crivelli, brought him to New Orleans thirteen years ago, when the little heiress was about six years old." "Indeed!" muttered Augustus, biting his lip fiercely; "and the children were brought up together, I suppose?" "They were." "That explains all," said the planter, striding toward the door. "All what?" asked Craig. "No matter," replied Augustus Horton; and, without another word to the lawyer, he left the apartment and passed once more through the office where Paul Lisimon was seated. This time it was with a glance of intense malignity that he regarded the young man, who, scarcely conscious of his presence, sat with his head bent over his work. "So," exclaimed the planter, when he found himself alone; "I thought that you were an iceberg, Camillia Moraquitos, and that the burning breath of passion had never melted your frozen nature. I never dreamt that I had a rival; but the mystery is solved. This Mexican, this nameless dependent on your father's bounty, is doubtless he for whom you scorn the proudest suitors New Orleans can offer. I should have known that a woman is never utterly indifferent to a man's attentions save when she loves another. No matter, Camillia, you will find it no trifle to brave the hatred of Augustus Horton. My rival is younger and handsomer than I; it would be hopeless to attempt to win her love while he is by to sue and be preferred; but before the year is out, I will have thrust him from my pathway as I would an insolent slave on my plantation."