“BUT good heavens! What is it?—Who are you?—” cried the Countess, trembling.

“Don’t be alarmed, Se?ora,” said Quentin. “We have no idea of harming you.”

“What do you want of me? I have no money with me.”

“We are not looking for money.”

“Then what do you want?”

“We’ll tell you that later. Have a little patience.”

Several moments passed in the carriage without the woman saying a word. She was huddled motionless against a window.

After some time had elapsed, the horses moderated their pace, one could hear the rain on the cover of the carriage. Suddenly Quentin heard the door-fastening rattle.

“Don’t be foolish, my lady,” he said rudely. “And don’t try to escape. It will be dangerous.”

“This violence may cost you dear,” murmured the Countess.

“Most assuredly. We men are prepared for anything.”

“But if you don’t want my money, what do you want? Tell me, and let us bring this affair to a close at once.[262]”

“That is a secret that does not belong to me.”

“But, sir,” exclaimed the woman—“I’ll give you anything you want if you will only take me home.”

At this moment a flash of lightning violently illumined the night, and the Countess and Quentin were enabled to see each other’s faces in the spectral light. Then came a thunderclap as loud as a cannon shot.

“Oh, my God!” gasped the Countess as she devoutly crossed herself.

Quentin felt a tremor run through him at the sight of the woman’s terror, and said to her:

“My dear lady, do not let us cause you any alarm. Please rest assured that we have no intention of harming you. I rather think that the man on the box is some gentleman who is in love with you, and not being able in any other way to attain good fortune, is abducting you in this manner.”

Quentin’s accent, his gallant meaning in those circumstances must have surprised the Countess, as she made no answer.

“Don’t you think so?” said Quentin. “Don’t you believe that this is a matter of some one courting you?”

“It’s a fine way to court,” she replied.

“All ways are good if they come out right.”

“Do you believe that this method of treating a lady can come out right?”

“Why not? Other more difficult things have been seen in the world, and they do say that women like the novel.”

“Well, I don’t like it a bit.”

“Are you so prosaic that you are not enchanted by the thought of meeting soon a young, good-looking, respectful abductor who offers you his heart and life?[263]”

“No, I am not enchanted. What is more, if I could send that abductor to prison I would do so with much pleasure.”

“You know that love is intrepid and....”

Quentin was silent. He thought of the poem written by Cornejo for La Víbora.

“I don’t know why,” said the woman at length, “but it seems to me that I am beginning to realize who my abductor is. It strikes me that he is a half-relative of mine who dislikes me very much. A waif....”

“I think you are getting warm, my lady.”

“Who writes insults and calumnies about a woman who has never offended him.”

“You are not quite so near the point, there. Listen: The day before yesterday, that relative of yours was rushing madly about these God-forsaken streets, hounded by a dozen men; on a night that was as cold as the devil, he was on the point of throwing himself into the river and scraping an acquaintance with the shad that live in it.”

“So you are Quentin?”

“I am the lady’s most humble servant.”

“How you frightened me! I shall never forgive you for this night.”

“Nor will I forgive you for the one I spent the day before yesterday.”

“Where is my coachman? Is he on the box?”

“No, my lady.”

“Where is he?”

“He is conveniently drunk in a tavern on the Calle del Potro.”

“Then who is driving the carriage?”

“Pacheco.[264]”

“Pacheco! The bandit?”

“In person. In all ways a gentleman, and whom I shall have the pleasure of presenting to you tonight as soon as we reach the farm where we are to stop.”

“What are you two going to do with me there?”

“We shall think it over.”

“I believe you intend to kill me....”

“Kill you?—Nothing of the sort. We shall entertain you; you will take rides over the mountain; you’ll get a trifle brown—Besides, we are doing you a great favour.”

“Doing me a favour? What is it?”

“Keeping you from answering that little toreador who had the presumption to send you a note.”

“To send me a note?”

“Yes, my lady; you. As you came out of the theatre. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“It must be true if you saw it.”

“Of course it is! In the first place, that toreador is a stupid good-for-nothing who would go about boasting that you looked upon him with sympathy, and that....”

“Enough, or I’ll even have to thank you for bringing me here.”

“And it’s true.”

The Countess was growing calmer and less timid with every minute.

“How many days are you going to keep me kidnapped?” she asked rather jovially.

“As many as you wish. When you get too bored, we’ll take you back to Cordova. Then, if you still bear us a grudge, you may denounce us.”

“And if I don’t?[265]”

“If you don’t, then you will permit us to come to call some day.”

“We’ll see how you act.”

Just then the carriage stopped. Quentin prepared to get down, and said to the woman:

“I don’t know what Pacheco wants. Perhaps he’s tired of riding on the box.”

“Don’t leave me alone with him,” murmured the Countess.

“Never fear; Pacheco is absolutely a gentleman, and will take no undue liberties....”

“That makes no difference.”

“Then I shall tell him of your wish. If you want to be alone, tell me, and I’ll ride on the box.”

“No, no: I prefer you to ride with me.”

Pacheco jumped down from the box, and coming up to Quentin, said:

“It seems to me that I have done my duty like a man, and that it’s your turn to take my place on the box.”

“That’s what I think. Come, I’m going to present you to the Countess.”

Quentin opened the carriage door and said:

“Countess, this is my friend.”

“Good evening, Pacheco.”

“A very good evening to you, my lady.”

“How tired you are making yourselves on my account!”

“Se?ora Condesa!” stammered the bandit in confusion.

“You are very nice,” she added graciously.

“You are most flattering,” replied Pacheco.

“No; you two are the flatterers![266]”

“But are you sorry, my lady?” asked Pacheco gravely.

“I!—On the contrary; I am having a very good time.”

“That’s better, my lady. You mustn’t be afraid; if you order me to, we’ll go back this minute.”

The Countess considered for a moment, and then cried gayly:

“No; let us go on. We’ll go wherever you wish. You stay with me, Quentin, for I want to talk to you.”

Again Pacheco climbed to the box, clucked to the horses, and the carriage went on its way. It was beginning to clear up; here and there a patch of star-sprinkled sky appeared between the great, black clouds.

“He seems like a fine fellow,” said the Countess, who was now completely at her ease, when she and Quentin were alone.

“Do not deceive yourself; there are only two places where true gentlemen can be found: in the mountains, or in prison.”

“How awful!” she cried.

“That is the way the two extremes meet,” he went on. “When a man is a great, a very great rascal, and utterly disregards the ideas of the people and everything else, he has reached the point where the bandit is joining hands with the gentleman.”

“See here, Sir Bandit,” said the Countess easily, “why did you take this dislike to me, and............