“Perfectly, Señhora!” said I; “nor was I aware yesterday, till the very moment of our meeting, in whose presence I was standing.”
“But you had heard of me here?”
“Only as the Marchesa de la Norada, not as the Señhora.”
“Hush! let that name never escape your lips; I believe you and trust you. The commission I gave you was well and faithfully executed: were it otherwise, and did I deem you false, it would not be difficult for me to rid myself of the embarrassment. We live in a city where such things are well understood.” My blood ran cold at this threat, for I remembered the accusation which hung over her, in Mexico. She saw what was passing in my mind, and added, “You have nothing to fear; we shall be good friends while you remain here; but that time must be brief. I cannot, I will not, live a life of terror; a moment of impatience, an unguarded word, a hasty expression of yours, might compromise me, and then—When can you leave Naples?”
“To-morrow—to-day, if you desire it.”
“That would be too hurried,” she said thoughtfully. “We must not encourage suspicion. Why are you here?”
I gave the restoration of my health as the reason, and then alluded to the circumstances of my Spanish claim, which I had hoped Naples would have proved a suitable place for pressing.
“Who knows of this transaction? What evidence have you of its truth?” said she, hurriedly.
“The minister by whose order I was imprisoned, the Governor of Malaga, his official underlings, all know of it.”
“Enough. Now, by whom was the information given on which you were arrested?”