“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.”
“Ah, let me see my daughter!”