"The daughter of so honorable a man as yourself, Don Juan," said Pauline, as if interpreting the thoughts of her employer. While this conversation was going forward between Mademoiselle Corsi and the Spaniard, Camillia Moraquitos had strolled out onto the balcony, to escape the watchful eyes of her father, and to conceal the relief she felt in her lover's escape. Pauline and Don Juan were, therefore, alone. Their eyes met. There was something in the glance of the Frenchwoman which told plainly that her words had no common meaning. For some moments the gaze of Don Juan was rooted upon that fair face and those clear and radiant blue eyes--a face which was almost childlike in its delicacy and freshness, and which yet, to the experienced eye of the physiognomist, revealed a nature rarely matched for intelligence and cunning. Don Juan crossed the apartment to the curtained recess in which Pauline Corsi was seated, and, placing himself in the chair opposite to her, grasped her slender wrist in his muscular hand. "There is a hidden significance in your words," he said. "Can you not read their meaning, Don Juan?" "No." "You cannot?" "I cannot," he answered defiantly. "Say rather that you will not," replied the Frenchwoman, scornfully. "You fear to commit yourself by an avowal which may seem like a confession of guilt. Shall I tell you the meaning of those words?" "Yes." "You are a brave man, Don Juan Moraquitos, you do not fear to hear the truth?" "I do not." "Then listen to me. Those words have relation to an event which occurred thirteen years ago!" "My memory is no longer that of a young man," answered Don Juan; "I cannot remember all the events which happened at that date." "Perhaps not; but you can remember the death of your kinsman, Don Tomaso Crivelli?" This time the Spaniard started as if an adder had stung him. The cold perspiration broke out upon his bronzed forehead, and every vestige of color fled alike from cheek and lips. "I see you do remember," said Pauline Corsi. "You remember that will which was made on that night. The will which was witnessed by two men; one of them a seafaring man whose name I know not as yet; the other, William Bowen, then captain of a slaver. You remember the sick man's confession. You remember his dying prayer, that those dear to him should be protected by you; and lastly, Don Juan Moraquitos, you remember the draught mixed by Silas Craig, and which your wife's brother, Tomaso Crivelli, took from your hand, two hours before his death!" "How could you have learned all this?" gasped the Spaniard. "I know more than this!" replied Pauline Corsi. "When the faint gray of the wintry dawn was stealing through the half-open shutters of the sick chamber, Tomaso Crivelli lifted himself from his pillow in the last agonies of death, and uttered an accusation--"