And so was it, at intervals, when this thought came into her mind; but there was another--some other thought--that brought those clouds upon her brow, and imparted that air of uneasy apprehension. What was that thought? In her hand she held a bandolon. She flung herself upon a bench, and began to play some old Spanish air. The effort was too much for her. Her thoughts wandered from the melody, and her fingers from the strings. She laid down the instrument, and, again rising to her feet, paced backwards and forwards upon the azotea. Her walk was irregular. At intervals she stopped, and, lowering her eyes, seemed to think intently on something that was absent. Then she would start forward, and stop again in the same manner as before. This she repeated several times, without uttering either word or exclamation. Once she continued her walk all around the azotea, casting a scrutinising look among the plants and flower-pots on both sides, as if in search of something; but whatever it was, she was unsuccessful, as nothing appeared to arrest her attention. She returned once more, and took up the bandolon. But her fingers had hardly touched the strings before she laid the instrument down again, and rose from the bench, as if some sudden resolution had taken possession of her. "I never thought of that--I may have dropped it in the garden!" she muttered to herself, as she glided toward a small escalera that led down into the patio. From this point an avenue communicated with the garden; and the next moment she had passed through this and was tripping over the sanded walks, bending from side to side, and peeping behind every plant and bush that could have concealed the object of her search. She explored every part of the enclosure, and lingered a moment in the arbour among the china-trees--as if she enjoyed that spot more than any other--but she came back at length with the same anxious expression, that told she was not rewarded by the recovery of whatever she had lost. The lady once more returned to the azotea--once more took up the bandolon; but after a few touches of the strings, laid it down, and again rose to her feet. Again she soliloquised. "_Carrambo_! it is very strange!--neither in my chamber--the sala, the cuarto, the azotea, the garden!--where can it be? O Dios! if it should fall into the hands of papa! It is too intelligible--it could not fail to be understood--no--no--no! O Dios! if it should reach other hands!-- those of _his_ enemies! It names to-night--true, it does not tell the place, but the time is mentioned--the place would be easily discovered. Oh! that I knew where to communicate with him! But I know not, and he will come. _Ay de mi_! it cannot be prevented now. I must hope no enemy has got it. But where can it be? Madre de Dios! where can it be?"