Don Juan and his daughter praised the fidelity of the slave, and promised him every privilege that could render his service a happy one. Only one person in that household divined the secret clew to the negro's strange conduct. That person was the seemingly frivolous and light-hearted Frenchwoman, Pauline Corsi. A depth of penetration lurked beneath that girlish exterior. She read the true meaning of Tristan's conduct. The slave--the negro--the thick-lipped, woolly-haired African--the lowest type of a despised and abhorred race, loved his mistress, the wealthy Spanish heiress, the beautiful and haughty Camillia Moraquitos! CHAPTER XIII. PAULINE CORSI OFFERS TO REVEAL A SECRET. Silas Craig was right in his conjecture. Paul Lisimon went straight from the lawyer's office to the Villa Moraquitos. It was there, and in the eyes of her so dearly loved, and of the haughty benefactor of his youth, that the young Mexican was eager to disprove the lying accusation brought against him. A thief! His proud spirit revolted at the very thought of the base nature of the crime of which he was accused. Theft--the most contemptible, petty theft--a theft upon the employer who had trusted him! He found Camillia within doors, and, in the presence of Pauline Corsi, told her the story of his wrongs. The lovely eyes of the Spanish girl flashed with indignant fire. "We always hated this man, Craig, by instinct, Paul," she said; "that instinct did not deceive us." Pauline Corsi appeared to sympathize sincerely with the lovers, and expressed the utmost contempt for Silas Craig. While Paul was seated by Camillia, her hand clasped in his, her large black eyes bathed in tears, yet lifted confidingly to his face, the sound of the footsteps of several men was heard upon the staircase without, and Don Juan Moraquitos entered the apartment, followed by Silas Craig. The brow of the Spaniard was dark with passion, but beneath the red eyebrows of the lawyer, there sparkled the light of malice and cunning. "Release the hand of that man, Camillia Moraquitos!" exclaimed Don Juan, with suppressed fury, as he beheld his daughter and Paul Lisimon seated side by side; "release his hand, or never again dare to call me father!" The young girl raised her eyes to the face of the Spaniard and met his angry gaze with a glance of calm defiance. "Why should I take my hand from his?" she said, calmly; "we have been playfellows, companions, and friends from childhood. You have seen our hands locked together ere to-day; why do you wish to part us now?" Though the voice of the Spanish girl was calm and unfaltering, and although she met her father's gaze without one quiver of her snowy eyelids, her slender form trembled with emotion as she spoke. "Shall I tell you why?" asked her father. "Yes; I wait to learn."