required to be joined with those of the counterpart to make sense.  The corregidor admired the ingenuity of the contrivance, and judged from the costliness of the chain, that the pilgrim must have been a lady of great wealth.  It was his intention to remove the lovely girl from the inn as soon as he had chosen a suitable convent for her abode; but for the present he contented himself with taking away the parchment only, desiring the innkeeper to inform him if any one came for Costanza, before he showed that person the chain, which he left in his custody.  And with this parting injunction the corregidor left the house, much marvelling at what he had seen and heard.

Whilst all this affair was going on, Tomas was almost beside himself with agitation and alarm, and lost in a thousand conjectures, every one of which he dismissed as improbable the moment it was formed.  But when he saw the corregidor go away, leaving Costanza behind him, his spirits revived and he began to recover his self-possession.  He did not venture to question the landlord, nor did the latter say a word about what had passed between him and the corregidor to any body but his wife, who was greatly relieved thereby, and thanked God for her delivery out of a terrible fright.

About one o’clock on the following day, there came to the inn two elderly cavaliers of venerable presence, attended by four servants on horseback and two on foot.  Having inquired if that was the Posada del Sevillano, and being answered in the affirmative, they entered the gateway, and the four mounted servants, dismounting, first helped their master’s out of their saddles.  Costanza came out to meet the new-comers with her wonted propriety of demeanour, and no sooner had one of the cavaliers set eyes on her, than, turning to his companion, he said, “I believe, senor Don Juan, we have already found the very thing we are come in quest of.”  Tomas, who had come as usual to take charge of the horses and mules, instantly recognised two of his father’s servants; a moment after he saw his father himself, and found that his companion was no other than the father of Carriazo.  He instantly conjectured that they were both on their way to the tunny fisheries to look for himself and his friend, some one having no doubt told them that it was there, and not in Flanders, they would find their sons.  Not daring to appear before his father in the garb he wore, he made a bold venture, passed by the party with his hand before his face, and went to look for Costanza, whom, by great good luck, he found alone.  Then hurriedly, and with a tremulous voice, dreading lest she would not give him time to say a word to her, “Costanza,” he said, “one of those two elderly cavaliers is my father—­that one whom you will hear called Don Juan de Avendano.  Inquire of his servants if he has a son, Don Tomas de Avendano by name, and that is myself.  Thence you may go on to make such other inquiries as will satisfy you that I have told you the truth respecting my quality, and that I will keep my word with regard to every offer I have made you.  And now farewell, for I will not return to this house until they have left it.”