Just then her eye fell upon a piece of crumpled paper lying on the floor—part of a letter, it seemed. Almost mechanically—with no special intention at least—she stooped to pick it up.
"What have you got there?" asked her aunt.
"A letter."
"It must be Benito's; he probably dropped it in the scuffle. Do you know that he dared to raise his hand against my worthy husband?"
"If it is Benito's I have no desire to touch it," said Mariquita, disdainfully.
"Throw it into the yard, then," said her aunt.
Mariquita accordingly went to the back door and out into the garden, round which she walked listlessly, once or twice, forgetting what she held in her hand.
Then she looked at it in an aimless, absent way, and began to read some of the words.
The letter was in Spanish, written in a female hand. It said—
"Wait till he goes back to the Crimea, then follow him instantly. On arrival at Balaclava go at once to the Maltese baker whose shop is at the head of the bay near Kadikoi; he will give you employment. This will explain and cover your presence in the camp. You will visit all parts of it, selling bread. You must hang about the English headquarters; he is most often there; and remember that he is the sole object of your errand. You must know at all times where he is and what he is doing.