“Yes, of you, Ruez,” continued his sister, striving to hide a tell-tale blush, as her eyes met her brother’s.  “I have been telling General Bezan what a dear, good brother you have been to me—­how you have ever remembered all his kindnesses to me; while I have thought little of them, and have been far from grateful.”

“Not at heart, sister,” said the boy, quickly; “not always in your sleep, since you will sometimes talk in your day dreams!”

“Ah, Ruez, you turned traitor, and betray me? well, there can be little harm, perhaps, to have all known now.”

“Now?” repeated Ruez.  “Why do you use that word so decidedly?”

“Why, you must know, my dear Ruez,” said the general, “that a treaty has been partially agreed upon between us, which will necessarily put all hostilities at an end; and, therefore, any secret information can be of no possible use whatever.”

“Is it so, Isabella?” asked Ruez, inquiringly, of his sister.

“Yes, brother, we are to ‘bury the hatchet,’ as the American orators say.”

“Are you in earnest? but no matter; I am going-let me see, where was I going?”

“You came into the room as though you had been shot out of one of the port-holes of Moro Castle,” said the general, playfully.  “No wonder you forget!”

The boy looked too full for utterance.  He shook the general’s hand, heartily kissed Isabella, and telling them he believed they had turned conspirators, and were about to perpetrate some fearful business against the government, and sagely hinting that unless he was also made a confidant of, he should forthwith denounce them to Tacon, he shook his hand with a most serious mock air and departed.

It would be in bad taste for us, also, not to leave Isabella and Lorenzo Bezan alone.  They had so much to say, so much to explain, so many pictures to paint on the glowing canvass of the future, with the pencils of hope and love, that it would be unfair not to permit them to do so undisturbed.  So we will follow Ruez to the volante, and dash away with him and Don Gonzales to the Paseo, for a circular drive.

“I left General Bezan and Isabella together in the drawing-room,” began Ruez to his father, just as they passed outside of the city walls.

“Yes.  I knew he was there,” said the father, indifferently.

“That was a very singular affair that occurred between him and the Countess Moranza.”

“Queer enough.”

“Yet sister says that the general was not to blame, in any respect.”

“Yes, I took good care to be satisfied of that,” said the father, who had indeed made it the subject of inquiry.  “Had he been guilty of deceiving that beautiful and high-born lady, he should never have entered my doors again.  I should have despised him.”

“He seems very fond of Isabella,” continued the boy, after a brief silence.

“Fond of her!”

“Yes, and she of him,” said Ruez.