I entered my chamber—to sleep? No. And yet it contained a bed fit for Morpheus—a bed canopied and curtained with cloth from the looms of Damascus: shining rods roofed upwards, that met in an ornamental design, where the god of sleep, fanned by virgins of silver, reclined upon a couch of roses.

I drew aside the curtains—a bank of snow—pillows, as if prepared for the cheek of a beautiful bride. I had not slept in a bed for two months. A close crib in a transport ship—a “shake-down” among the scorpions and spiders of Lobos—a single blanket among the sand-hills, where it was not unusual to wake up half-buried by the drift.

These were my souvenirs. Fancy the prospect! It certainly invited repose; and yet I was in no humour to sleep. My brain was in a whirl. The strange incidents of the day—some of them were mysterious—crowded into my mind. My whole system, mental as well as physical, was flushed; and thought followed thought with nervous rapidity.

My heart shared the excitement—chords long silent had been touched—the divine element was fairly enthroned. I was in love!

It was not the first passion of my life, and I easily recognised it. Even jealousy had begun to distil its poison—“Don Santiago!”

I was standing in front of a large mirror, when I noticed two small miniatures hanging against the wall—one on each side of the glass.

I bent over to examine, first, that which hung upon the right. I gazed with emotion. They were her features; “and yet,” thought I, “the painter has not flattered her; it might better represent her ten years hence: still, the likeness is there. Stupid artist!” I turned to the other. “Her fair sister, no doubt. Gracious heaven! Do my eyes deceive me? No, the black wavy hair—the arching brows—the sinister lip—Dubrosc!”

A sharp pang shot through my heart. I looked at the picture again and again with a kind of incredulous bewilderment; but every fresh examination only strengthened conviction. “There is no mistaking those features—they are his!” Paralysed with the shock, I sank into a chair, my heart filled with the most painful emotions.

For some moments I was unable to think, much less to act.

“What can it mean? Is this accomplished villain a fiend?—the fiend of my existence?—thus to cross me at every point, perhaps in the end to—.”

Our mutual dislike at first meeting—Lobos—his reappearance upon the sand-hills, the mystery of his passing the ............