All the while Preciosa was thus speaking she kept fast hold of the corregidora’s hands, and kept her tearful eyes fixed on her face, whilst the lady gazed on her with no less wistfulness, and wept as she did.  Just then the corregidor entered, and seeing his wife and Preciosa thus mingling their tears, he was surprised as much by the scene as by the gitanilla’s beauty.  On his asking the cause of her affliction, Preciosa let go the lady’s hands, and threw herself at the corregidor’s feet, crying, “Mercy, mercy, senor!  If my husband dies, I die too.  He is not guilty; if he is, let me bear the punishment; or if that cannot be, at least let the trial be delayed until means be sought which may save him; for as he did not sin through malice, it may be that heaven in its grace will send him safety.”  The corregidor was still more surprised to hear such language from the gitanilla’s lips, and but that he would not betray signs of weakness, he could have wept with her.

While all this was passing, the old gitana was busily turning over a great many things in her mind, and after all this cogitation, she said, “Wait a little, your honour, and I will turn these lamentations into joy, though it should cost me my life;” and she stepped briskly out of the room.  Until she returned, Preciosa never desisted from her tears and entreaties that they would entertain the cause of her betrothed, being inwardly resolved that she would send to his father that he might come and interfere in his behalf.

The old gipsy woman returned with a little box under her arm, and requested that the corregidor and his lady would retire with her into another room, for she had important things to communicate to them in secret.  The corregidor imagined she meant to give him information respecting some thefts committed by the gipsies, in order to bespeak his favour for the prisoner, and he instantly withdrew with her and his lady to his closet, where the gipsy, throwing herself on her knees before them both, began thus: 

“If the good news I have to give to your honours be not worth forgiveness for a great crime I have committed, I am here to receive the punishment I deserve.  But before I make my confession, I beg your honours will tell me if you know these trinkets;” and she put the box which contained those belonging to Preciosa into the corregidor’s hands.  He opened it, and saw those childish gewgaws, but had no idea what they could mean.  The corregidora looked at them, too, with as little consciousness as her husband, and merely observed that they were the ornaments of some little child.  “That is true,” replied the gipsy, “and to what child they belonged is written in this folded paper.”  The corregidor hastily opened the paper, and read as follows:—­

“The child’s name was Dona Constanza de Acevedo y de Menesis; her mother’s, Dona Guiomar de Menesis; and her father’s, D. Fernando de Acevedo, knight of the order of Calatrava.  She disappeared on the day of the Lord’s Ascension, at eight in the morning, in the year one thousand five hundred and ninety-five.  The child had upon her the trinkets which are contained in this box.”