“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. . . .”

Suddenly the quartermaster remembered the hour just before the election, when Florette had thrown herself upon his breast, and thanked him for his kindness; clenching his teeth, he groaned aloud.

The others were about to leave him, but he regained his self-control, and said: 

“Take him the count’s letter, Renato.  What I have to say to him, I will determine later.”

Zorrillo was a long time unlacing his jerkin and taking out the paper.  Both of his companions noticed how his fingers trembled, and looked at each other compassionately; but the older one said, as he received the letter: 

“Man, man, this will do no good.  Women are like good fortune.”

“Take the thing as a thousand others have taken it, and don’t come to blows.  You wield a good blade, but to attack Navarrete is suicide.  I’ll take him the letter.  Be wise, Zorrillo, and look for another love at once.”

“Directly, directly, of course,” replied the quartermaster; but as soon as he had sent the maid-servant away, and was entirely alone, he bowed his forehead upon the table and his shoulders heaved convulsively.  He remained in this attitude a long time, then paced to and fro with forced calmness.  Morning dawned long ere he sought his couch.

Early the next day he made his report to the Eletto before the assembled council of war, and when it broke up, approached Navarrete, saying, in so loud a tone that no one could fail to hear: 

“I congratulate you on your new sweetheart.”

“With good reason,” replied the Eletto.  “Wait a little while, and I’ll wager that you’ll congratulate me more sincerely than you do to-day.”