“One moment, Senor Pedro; I want something else from you, and you, senora.”

They looked at him with well-disguised astonishment.

“I have long loved your niece; will you give her to me in marriage?”

“Oh! sir, it is too great an honour for our house.  We—­she—­are all unworthy.  But if you insist, and are prepared to take her as she is, dowerless, uncultured, with only her natural gifts, she is yours.”

“I want only herself.  I have sufficient means for both.  They may still be modest, but I have good prospects—­the very best.  Some day I shall inherit a great fortune.”

“Oh! sir, you overwhelm us.  We can make you no sufficient return for your great condescension.  Only command us, and we will faithfully execute your wishes.”

“My only desire is that you should treat Mariquita well.  Take every care of her until I can return.  It will not be long, I trust, before this war is ended, and then I will make her my wife.”

McKay’s last words were overheard by a man who at this moment entered the shop.

It was Benito, who advanced with flaming face and fierce, angry eyes towards the group at the counter.

“What is this—­and your promise to me?  The girl is mine; you gave her to me months ago.”

“Our promise was conditional on Mariquita’s consent,” said La Zandunga, with clever evasion.  “That you have never been able to obtain.”

“I should have secured it in time but for this scoundrel who has come between me and my affianced bride.  He’ll have to settle with me, whoever he is,” and so saying, Benito came closer to McKay, whom hitherto he had not recognised.  “The Englishman!” he cried, starting back.

“Very much at your service,” replied McKay, shortly.  “I am not afraid of your threats.  I think I can hold my own with you as I have done before.”

“We shall see,” and with a muttered execration, full of hatred and malice, he rushed from the place.

When, an hour or two later, Mrs. Wilders hunted him up at the Redhot Shell Ramp, she found him in a mood fit for any desperate deed.  But, with native cunning, he pretended to show reluctance when she asked him for his help.

“Who is it you hate?  An Englishman?  Any one on the Rock?” he said.  “And what do you want done?  I have no wish to bring myself within reach of the English law.”

“It is an English officer.  He is here just now, but will presently return to the Crimea.”

“What is his name?” asked Benito, eagerly, his black heart inflamed with a wild hope of revenge.

“McKay—­Stanislas McKay, of the Royal Picts.”

It was his name!  A fierce, baleful light gleamed in Benito’s dark eyes; he clenched his fists and set his teeth fast.

“You know him?” said Mrs. Wilders, readily interpreting these signs of hate.

“I should like to kill him!” hissed Benito.

“Do so, and claim your own reward.”