"Dear Martin, what of my father?"
"Why, first," said I, avoiding her eyes, "he is dead!"
"Yes!" said she faintly, "this I guessed."
"He died nobly like the brave gentleman he was. I buried him in the wilderness, where flowers bloomed, three days march back."
"In the wilderness?" says she a little breathlessly. "But he was in prison!"
"Aye, 'twas there I found him. But we escaped by the unselfish bravery and kindness of Don Federigo. So together we set out to find you."
"Together, Martin?"
"Yes, and he very cheery, despite his sufferings."
"Sufferings, Martin?"
"He—he halted somewhat in his walk—"