Without taking the time to peruse the letters that were handed him, Don Sancho concealed them in his doublet, and proceeded hastily to his sister's apartment.
She was anxiously awaiting him.
"Here you are at last, brother," she exclaimed on perceiving him.
"What," the young man replied, as he kissed her hand, "were you expecting me?"
"Oh, yes, that I was; but you are very late—what has kept you so long?" she asked, in agitation.
"Where have I been? Why, s'death! I have been hunting, the only pleasure allowed a gentleman in this horrible country."
"What, at this hour?"
"Zounds, my dear Clara, a man gets home when he can, especially in this country, where we ought to feel very happy at reaching home again at all."
"You are speaking in enigmas, brother, and I do not at all understand you; be kind enough, therefore, to explain yourself clearly—have you fallen into bad company?"
"Yes, and very bad, too; but forgive me, my dear Clara, if you have no objection, let us proceed regularly. You desired to see me immediately on my return, and here I am at your orders; be kind enough, therefore, to tell me how I can possibly be of service to you, and then I will narrate the series of singular events with which my today's sport has been diversified. I will not hide from you that I have certain questions to ask of you, and certain explanations, which I feel sure you will not refuse to give me."