The nobleman reminded them of their oath of allegiance, made lavish use of kind words, threats and warnings, but the Eletto remained firm.  Mannsfeld perceived that he had come in vain; the only concession he could obtain from Navarrete was, that some prudent man among the leaders should accompany him to Brussels, to explain the condition of the regiments to the council of state there, and receive fresh proposals.  Then the count suggested that Zorrillo should be entrusted with the mission, and the Eletto ordered the quartermaster to prepare for departure at once.  An hour after the general left the camp with Flora’s lover in his train.

CHAPTER XXVII.

The fifth night after the Eletto’s election was closing in, a light rain was falling, and no sound was heard in the deserted streets of the encampment except now and then the footsteps of a sentinel, or the cries of a child.  In Zorrillo’s tent, which was usually brightly lighted until a late hour of the night, only one miserable brand was burning, beside which sat the sleepy bar-maid, darning a hole in her frieze-jacket.  The girl did not expect any one, and started when the door of the tent was violently torn open, and her master, followed by two newly-appointed captains, came straight up to her.

Zorrillo held his hat in his hand, his hair, slightly tinged with grey, hung in a tangled mass over his forehead, but he carried himself as erect as ever.  His body did not move, but his eyes wandered from one corner of the tent to another, and the girl crossed herself and held up two fingers towards him, for his dark glance fell upon her, as he at last exclaimed, in a hollow tone: 

“Where is the mistress?”

“Gone, I could not help it” replied the girl.

“Where?”

“To the Eletto, to Navarrete.”

“When?”

“He came and took her and the child, directly after you had left the camp.”

“And she has not returned?”

“She has just sent a roast chicken, which I was to keep for you when you came home.  There it is.”  Zorrillo laughed.  Then he turned to his companions, saying: 

“I thank you.  You have now....  Is she still with the Eletto?”

“Why, of course.”

“And who—­who saw her the night before the election—­let me sit down—­who saw her with him then?”

“My brother,” replied one of the captains.  “She was just coming out of the tent, as he passed with the guard.”

“Don’t take the matter to heart,” said the other.  “There are plenty of women!  We are growing old, and can no longer cope with a handsome fellow like Navarrete.”

“I thought the sibyl was more sensible,” added the younger captain.  “I saw her in Naples sixteen years ago.  Zounds, she was a beautiful woman then!  A pretty creature even now; but Navarrete might almost be her son.  And you always treated her kindly, Pasquale.  Well, whoever expects gratitude from women....”