It was noon: the house was quiet, for Doña Mercedes had retired after breakfast to take her unfailing siesta, leaving us to our conversation. In that spacious, cool room where I had first reposed in the house, I was lying on the sofa smoking a cigarette. Dolores, seating herself near me with her guitar, said, “Now let me play and sing you to sleep with something very soft.” But the more she played and sang the further was I from un-needed slumber. “What, not sleeping yet, Richard!” she would say, with a little laugh after each song. “Not yet, Dolores,” I would reply, pretending to get drowsy. “But my eyes are getting heavy now. One more song will send me to the region of dreams. Sing me that sweet favourite--- _Desde aquel doloroso momento_.” At length, finding that my sleepiness was all pretence, she refused to sing any more, and presently we drifted once more into the old subject. “Ah, yes,” she replied to that argument about my nationality, which was my only shield, “I have always been taught to believe foreigners a cold, practical, calculating kind of people--so different from us. You never seemed to me like a foreigner; ah, Richard, why will you make me remember that you are not one of us! Tell me, dear friend, if a beautiful woman cried out to you to deliver her from some great misfortune or danger, would you stop to ask her nationality before going to her rescue?” “No, Dolores; you know that if you, for instance, were in distress or danger I would fly to your side and risk my life to save you.” “I believe you, Richard. But tell me, is it less noble to help a suffering people cruelly oppressed by wicked men who have succeeded by crimes and treachery and foreign aid in climbing into power? Will you tell me that no Englishman has drawn a sword in a cause like that? Oh, friend, is not my mother-country more beautiful and worthy to be helped than any woman? Has not God given her spiritual eyes that shed tears and look for comfort; lips sweeter than any woman's lips, that cry bitterly every day for deliverance? Can you look on the blue skies above you and walk on the green grass where the white and purple flowers smile up at you and be deaf and blind to her beauty and to her great need? Oh, no, no, it is impossible!” “Ah, if you were a man, Dolores, what a flame you would kindle in the hearts of your countrymen!” “Yes, if I were a man!” she exclaimed, starting to her feet; “then I should serve my country not with words only; then I would strike and bleed for her--how willingly! Being only a weak woman, I would give my heart's blood to win one arm to aid in the sacred cause.” She stood before me with flashing eyes, her face glowing with enthusiasm; then I also rose to my feet and took her hands in mine, for I was intoxicated with her loveliness and almost ready to throw all restraints to the winds.