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him with a pretty, puzzled look. She made a sweet picture thus, he
thought. Then he spoke to her in his slow Spanish, for somehow he knew
that she would not understand his own tongue.
"You are not Margaret," he said.
At once the dream went out of the woman's soft eyes; she became
intensely interested, and, rising, advanced towards him, a very gracious
figure, who seemed to sway as she walked.
"No, no," she said, bending over him and touching his forehead with her
taper fingers; "my name is Inez. You wander still, Senor."
"Inez what?" he asked.
"Inez only," she answered, "Inez, a woman of Granada, the rest is lost.
Inez, the nurse of sick men, Senor."
"Where then is Margaret--the English Margaret?"
A veil of secrecy seemed to fall over the woman's face, and her voice
changed as she answered, no longer ringing true, or so it struck his
senses made quick and subtle by the fires of fever:
"I know no English Margaret. Do you then love her--this English
"Aye," he answered, "she was stolen from me; I have followed her from
far, and suffered much. Is she dead or living?"
"I have told you, Senor, I know nothing, although"--and again the voice
became natural--"it is true that I thought you loved somebody from your
talk in your illness."
Peter pondered a while, then he began to remember, and asked again:
"Where is Castell?"
"Castell? Was he your companion, the man with a hurt arm who looked like
a Jew? I do not know where he is. In another part of the city, perhaps.
I think that he was sent to his friends. Question me not of such
matters, who am but your sick-nurse. You have been very ill, Senor.
Look!" And she handed him a little mirror made of polished silver, then,
seeing that he was too weak to take it, held it before him.
Peter saw his face, and groaned, for, except the red scar upon his
cheek, it was ivory white and wasted to nothing.
"I am glad Margaret did not see me like this," he said, with an attempt
at a smile, "bearded too, and what a beard! Lady, how could you have
nursed one so hideous?"
"I have not found you hideous," she answered softly; "besides, that is
my trade. But you must not talk, you must rest. Drink this, and rest,"
and she gave him soup in a silver bowl, which he swallowed readily
enough, and went to sleep again.
Some days afterwards, when Peter was well on the road to convalescence,
his beautiful nurse came and sat by him, a look of pity in her tender,
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