That winter I passed in Granada.  One evening I had been invited to a great ball given by a prominent Spanish lady.  As I was mounting the stairs of the magnificent residence, I was startled by the sight of a face which was easily distinguishable even in this crowd of southern beauties.  It was she, my unknown, the mysterious woman of the stagecoach, in fact, No. 1, of whom I spoke at the beginning of this narrative.

I made my way toward her, extending my hand in greeting.  She recognized me at once.

“Senora,” I said, “I have kept my promise not to search for you.  I did not know I would meet you here.  Had I suspected it I would have refrained from coming, for fear of annoying you.  Now that I am here, tell me whether I may recognize you and talk to you.”

“I see that you are vindictive,” she answered graciously, putting her little hand in mine.  “But I forgive you.  How are you?”

“In truth, I don’t know.  My health—­that is, the health of my soul, for you would not ask me about anything else in a ballroom—­depends upon the health of yours.  What I mean is that I could only be happy if you are happy.  May I ask if that wound of the heart which you told me about when I met you in the stagecoach has healed?”

“You know as well as I do that there are wounds which never heal.”

With a graceful bow she turned away to speak to an acquaintance, and I asked a friend of mine who was passing:  “Can you tell me who that woman is?”

“A South American whose name is Mercedes de Meridanueva.”

On the following day I paid a visit to the lady, who was residing at that time at the Hotel of the Seven Planets.  The charming Mercedes received me as if I were an intimate friend, and invited me to walk with her through the wonderful Alhambra and subsequently to dine with her.  During the six hours we were together she spoke of many things, and as we always returned to the subject of disappointed love, I felt impelled to tell her the experience of my friend, Judge Zarco.

She listened to me very attentively and when I concluded she laughed and said:  “Let this be a lesson to you not to fall in love with women whom you do not know.”

“Do not think for a moment,” I answered, “that I’ve invented this story.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt the truth of it.  Perhaps there may be a mysterious woman in the Hotel of the Seven Planets of Granada, and perhaps she doesn’t resemble the one your friend fell in love with in Sevilla.  So far as I am concerned, there is no risk of my falling in love with anyone, for I never speak three times to the same man.”

“Senora!  That is equivalent to telling me that you refuse to see me again!”

“No, I only wish to inform you that I leave Granada to-morrow, and it is probable that we will never meet again.”

“Never?  You told me that during our memorable ride in the stagecoach, and you see that you are not a good prophet.”