He unconsciously clasped his hands.  The good child had one trait which she could not have inherited from her father; she was quick-witted and discerning; yet now she stood confounded.

“Speak, my child,” cried the alarmed old man; “speak! let me live, and not die.”

“Oh, papa,” she cried, “I do not know!”

The old man groaned.

“Papa, papa,” she cried again, “I felt it; I know not how; something told me.”

“Alas!” exclaimed the old man, “if it was your conscience!”

“No, no, no, papa,” cried Pauline, “but I was afraid of Manuel Mazaro, and I think he hates him—­and I think he will hurt him in any way he can—­and I know he will even try to kill him.  Oh! my God!”

She struck her hands together above her head, and burst into a flood of tears.  Her father looked upon her with such sad sternness as his tender nature was capable of.  He laid hold of one of her arms to draw a hand from the face whither both hands had gone.

“You know something else,” he said; “you know that the Major loves you, or you think so:  is it not true?”

She dropped both hands, and, lifting her streaming eyes that had nothing to hide straight to his, suddenly said: 

“I would give worlds to think so!” and sunk upon the floor.

He was melted and convinced in one instant.

“Oh, my child, my child,” he cried, trying to lift her.  “Oh, my poor little Pauline, your papa is not angry.  Rise, my little one; so; kiss me; Heaven bless thee.  Pauline, treasure, what shall I do with thee?  Where shall I hide thee?”

“You have my counsel already, papa.”

“Yes, my child, and you were right.  The Cafe des Exiles never should have been opened.  It is no place for you; no place at all.”

“Let us leave it,” said Pauline.

“Ah!  Pauline, I would close it to-morrow if I could, but now it is too late; I cannot.”

“Why?” asked Pauline, pleadingly.

She had cast an arm about his neck.  Her tears sparkled with a smile.

“My daughter, I cannot tell you; you must go now to bed; good-night—­or good-morning; God keep you!”

“Well, then, papa,” she said, “have no fear; you need not hide me; I have my prayer-book, and my altar, and my garden, and my window; my garden is my fenced city, and my window my watch-tower; do you see?”

“Ah!  Pauline,” responded the father, “but I have been letting the enemy in and out at pleasure.”

“Good-night,” she answered, and kissed him three times on either cheek; “the blessed Virgin will take care of us; good-night; he never said those things; not he; good-night.”

The next evening Galahad Shaughnessy and Manuel Mazaro met at that “very different” place, the Cafe des Refugies.  There was much free talk going on about Texan annexation, about chances of war with Mexico, about San Domingan affairs, about Cuba and many et-ceteras.  Galahad was in his usual gay mood.  He strode about among a mixed company of Louisianais, Cubans, and Americains, keeping them in a great laugh with his account of one of Ole Bull’s concerts, and how he had there extorted an invitation from M. and Mme. Devoti to attend one of their famous children’s fancy dress balls.