He spoke in Spanish, of course—a language which is usually spoken in Spain; and a very pretty language it is, too, and one which I should advise all my readers to learn; for they would find it uncommonly useful in case they should ever find themselves in a castle in Spain.
It was Harry who replied. He told the whole story as far as it was known to himself, dwelling especially upon the character and actions of that strange being who had played the rôle of monarch. Harry's light and playful nature threw a tinge of comicality around the whole story, which was highly appreciated by all his hearers. And so it was that a smile began to go round, until at length it deepened and developed into laughter, and so went on deepening and broadening and intensifying, until at last the laughter grew, if not Homeric, at least loud enough and long enough for a castle in Spain.
"It's the Irishman!" cried Don Carlos—"it's the Irish guerilla! It's O'Toole! The villain! he shall hang for this!"
Harry was too good-natured to feel revengeful, and was just beginning to beg for O'Toole's life, when suddenly there arose behind them the sound of hurried footsteps, followed by wild cries. All turned, and a strange figure met their eyes.
It was a woman. She wore a military cloak and an officer's kepi. She looked wildly around.
"Where is he? Where is my own one?" she cried—"'His Majesty?' Where is the hope of Spain?"
Russell saw her.
He threw out wide his manly arms—he opened his mouth: "Jewlia-r-r-r-r-r-r!"
With a long, loud cry he shouted this name, and rushed toward her.
Mrs. Russell saw him coming—her lost, lamented lord! the one whom she had mourned as dead! Was this his ghost? or was he indeed alive? In any case, the shock was awful for a woman of delicate nerves; and Mrs. Russell prided herself on being a woman of very delicate nerves.