McKay did not pause to say more.  He was too eager to go elsewhere.

His first visit, as in duty bound, had been to report his arrival and set on foot the business that had brought him.  His second was to see sweet Mariquita, the girl of his choice.

They had exchanged several letters.  His had been brief, hurried accounts of his doings, assuring her of his safety after every action and of his unalterable affection; hers were the artless outpourings of a warm, passionate nature tortured by ever-present heartrending anxiety for the man she loved best in the world.  There had been no time to warn her of his visit to Gibraltar, and his appearance was entirely unexpected there.

Things were much the same at the cigar-shop.  McKay walked boldly in and found La Zandunga, as usual, behind the counter, but alone.  She got up, and, not recognising him, bowed obsequiously.  Officers were rare visitors in Bombardier Lane and McKay’s staff-uniform inspired respect.

“You are welcome, sir.  In what can we serve you?  Our tobacco is greatly esteemed.  We import our cigars—­the finest—­direct from La Havanna; our cigarettes are made in the house.”

“You do not seem to remember me,” said McKay, quietly.  “I hope Mariquita is well?”

“Heaven protect me!  It is the Sergeant—­”

“Lieutenant, you mean.”

“An officer! already!  You have been fortunate, sir.”  La Zandunga spoke without cordiality and was evidently hesitating how to receive him.  “What brings you here?”

“I want to see Mariquita.”  The old crone stared at him with stony disapproval.  “I have but just arrived from the Crimea to buy horses and mules for the army.”

“Many?” Her manner instantly changed.  This was business for her husband, who dealt much in horseflesh.

“Thousands.”

“Won’t you be seated, sir?  Let me take your hat.  Mariqui—­ta!” she cried, with remarkable volubility.  The guest was clearly entitled to be treated with honour.

Mariquita entered hastily, expecting to be chidden, then paused shyly, seeing who was there.

“Shamefaced, come; don’t you know this gentleman?” said her aunt, encouragingly.  “Entertain him, little one, while I fetch your uncle.”

“What does it mean?” asked Mariquita, in amazement, as soon as she could release herself from her lover’s embrace.  “You here, Stanislas:  my aunt approving!  Am I mad or asleep?”

“Neither, dearest.  She sees a chance of profit out of me—­that’s all.  I will not baulk her.  She deserves it for leaving us alone,” and he would have taken her again into his arms.

“No, no!  Enough, Stanislas!” said the sweet girl, blushing a rosy red.  “Sit there and be quiet.  Tell me of yourself:  why you are here.  The war, then, is over?  The Holy Saints be praised!  How I hated that war!”

“Do not say that, love!  It has been the making of me.”

“Nothing would compensate me for all that I have suffered these last few months.”