"The Inglesito was not wanted here," muttered Teresa, who scarcely knew whether to be pleased at the improvement in her patient, or vexed at the way in which that improvement was manifested.
"It was for me to judge whether my visitor's presence was wanted or not," said Alcala de Aguilera. "I will write to him,—no, I have not strength to write"—(not even the feverish energy which possessed his spirit could give steadiness to his hand)—"send Chico directly, without one minute's delay, to pray the señor to come hither. Is it not Sunday?" added Alcala more gently, turning his head towards Inez; "Lepine has no business to do upon Sundays, so his time will be free."
Teresa dared not disobey the hest of her master; she saw the fever-flush rising on his cheek, and could not risk the consequences of thwarting his will. Wishing in her heart that the vile foreign heretic were at the bottom of his own British Channel, Teresa went in search of Chico. There was, however, no need to find him, for the duenna had scarcely passed through the corridor before she heard the sound of Lepine's ring at the bell.
As for six successive evenings Lucius had been turned away from the house of the Aguileras, he had almost resolved to give up for a time all attempts to visit Alcala. On that very morning the young man had said to himself, "I will try my chance but once more;" and it was with very faint expectation of gaining admission that he came up to the grating which he had never but once been suffered to pass. It was a pleasant surprise to Lucius when Teresa, slowly and sullenly, drew back the bolt, and let him enter the patio. The old woman did not choose to usher the heretic herself into the presence of her master, but with her wrinkled finger pointed towards the corridor which led to Alcala's apartment.
Lucius needed no more distinct invitation. He crossed the court, and entered the corridor with a heart that throbbed with expectation. Here was the opportunity which he had desired, sought, and prayed for, of conversing with his wounded friend on the most important of subjects. Lucius felt that he must not again let such an opportunity slip. But what should he say,—how should he enter on a topic which might be unwelcome? Lucius felt that extreme difficulty of entering on spiritual themes which so often fetters the lips even of experienced Christians.
But how often man's whole difficulty lies in forming a firm resolution to do what conscience commands. No sooner does he begin to put that resolution into practice than the apprehended difficulty vanishes away! Such was to be the young Englishman's experience on the present occasion.
Lucius found Alcala alone, for Inez had glided out of the room by another door when she heard the visitor's approach. The wounded cavalier welcomed his friend with eyes that sparkled with animation, and an eagerness of manner for which Lucius was by no means prepared. He had expected to find Alcala in a state of suffering, languor, and depression, and never before had he seen the Spaniard's usually melancholy face wear an expression so bright.
"You are welcome; you are the one whom I most desired to see!" cried Alcala, holding out a thin hand which trembled with excitement as well as with weakness. "I pray you to take a seat by my side."
Lucius did so, and watched as De Aguilera feebly searched for something under his pillow, and then drew out carefully from its hiding-place a little fragment of paper.
"Tell me," said Alcala earnestly, as he held out the leaf to his companion—"tell me, Lepine, what is this?"