"She is there," replied the merchant, calmly, after a pause during which he recovered from the emotion caused by the abrupt entrance, and the look and voice of the mother. "She is there," he repeated, pointing to the door of the little chamber. "Yes, but has any harm come to her; is she still--" "Perfectly well," said Dona Lagounia. "O God! send me to hell if it so pleases thee!" cried the Marana, dropping, exhausted and half dead, into a chair. The flush in her cheeks, due to anxiety, paled suddenly; she had strength to endure suffering, but none to bear this joy. Joy was more violent in her soul than suffering, for it contained the echoes of her pain and the agonies of its own emotion. "But," she said, "how have you kept her safe? Tarragona is taken." "Yes," said Perez, "but since you see me living why do you ask that question? Should I not have died before harm could have come to Juana?" At that answer, the Marana seized the calloused hand of the old man, and kissed it, wetting it with the tears that flowed from her eyes --she who never wept! those tears were all she had most precious under heaven. "My good Perez!" she said at last. "But have you had no soldiers quartered in your house?" "Only one," replied the Spaniard. "Fortunately for us the most loyal of men; a Spaniard by birth, but now an Italian who hates Bonaparte; a married man. He is ill, and gets up late and goes to bed early." "An Italian! What is his name?" "Montefiore." "Can it be the Marquis de Montefiore--" "Yes, Senora, he himself." "Has he seen Juana?" "No," said Dona Lagounia. "You are mistaken, wife," said Perez. "The marquis must have seen her for a moment, a short moment, it is true; but I think he looked at her that evening she came in here during supper."