With these words she quitted Andrew, leaving him impatient for daylight, that he might receive the confession of the wounded man, and distracted in mind by a thousand various surmises.  He could not believe but that this page had come thither attracted by Preciosa’s beauty; for the thief believes that all men are such as himself.  On the other hand, the pledge voluntarily made to him by Preciosa appeared so highly satisfactory, that he ought to set his mind quite at ease, and commit all his happiness implicitly to the keeping of her good faith.  At last day appeared:  he visited the wounded man; and after inquiring how he was, and did his bites pain him, he asked what was his name, whither he was going, and how it was he travelled so late and so far off the road.  The youth replied that he was better, and felt no pain so that he was able to resume his journey.  His name was Alonzo Hurtado; he was going to our Lady of the Pena de Francia, on a certain business; he travelled by night for the greater speed; and having missed his way, he had come upon the encampment, and been worried by the dogs that guarded it.  Andrew did not by any means consider this a straightforward statement:  his suspicions returned to plague him; and, said he, “Brother, if I were a judge, and you had been brought before me upon any charge which would render necessary such questions as those I have put to you, the reply you have given would oblige me to apply the thumb-screw.  It is nothing to me who you are, what is your name, or whither you are going:  I only warn you, that if it suits your convenience to lie on this journey, you should lie with more appearance of truth.  You say you are going to La Pena de Francia, and you leave it on the right hand more than thirty leagues behind this place.  You travel by night for sake of speed, and you quit the high road, and strike into thickets and woods where there is scarcely a footpath.  Get up, friend, learn to lie better, and go your ways, in God’s name.  But in return for this good advice I give you, will you not tell me one truth?  I know you will, you are such a bad hand at lying.  Tell me, are you not one I have often seen in the capital, something between a page and a gentleman?  One who has the reputation of being a great poet, and who wrote a romance and a sonnet upon a gitanilla who some time ago went about Madrid, and was celebrated for her surpassing beauty?  Tell me, and I promise you, on the honour of a gentleman gipsy, to keep secret whatever you may wish to be so kept.  Mind you, no denial that you are the person I say will go down with me; for the face I see before me is unquestionably the same I saw in Madrid.  The fame of your talents made me often stop to gaze at you as a distinguished man, and therefore your features are so strongly impressed on my memory, though your dress is very different from that in which I formerly saw you.  Don’t be alarmed, cheer up, and don’t suppose you have fallen in with a tribe of robbers, but with an asylum,