he would hear from her.  But perhaps the priest might have been a confidant of his past, and had recalled the old affection in rivalry of her?  Or had she herself been unfortunate through any idle word to reopen the wound?  Had there been any suggestion?—­she checked herself suddenly at a thought that benumbed and chilled her!—­perhaps that happy hour at the cross might have reminded him of some episode with another?  That was the real significance of his rude speech.  With this first taste of the poison of jealousy upon her virgin lips, she seized the cup and drank it eagerly.  Ah, well—­he should keep his blissful recollections of the past undisturbed by her.  Perhaps he might even see—­though she had no past—­that her present life might be as disturbing to him!  She recalled, with a foolish pleasure, his solitary faint sneer at the devotion of the Commander’s Secretary.  Why shouldn’t she, hereafter, encourage that devotion as well as that sneer from this complacently beloved Mr. Hurlstone?  Why should he be so assured of her past?  The fair and gentle reader who may be shocked at this revelation of Eleanor Keene’s character will remember that she has not been recorded as an angel in these pages—­but as a very human, honest, inexperienced girl, for the first time struggling with the most diplomatic, Machiavellian, and hypocritical of all the passions.

In pursuance of this new resolution, she determined to accept an invitation from Mrs. Markham to accompany her and the Commander to a reception at the Alcalde’s house—­the happy Secretary being of the party.  Mrs. Markham, who was under promise to the Comandante not to reveal his plan for the escape of herself and Miss Keene until the arrival of the expected transport, had paid little attention to the late vagaries of her friend, and had contented herself by once saying, with a marked emphasis, that the more free they kept themselves from any entanglements with other people, the more prepared they would be for A change.

“Perhaps it’s just as well not to be too free, even with those Jesuits over at the Mission.  Your brother, you know, might not like it.”

“Those Jesuits!” repeated Miss Keene indignantly.  “Father Esteban, to begin with, is a Franciscan, and Mr. Hurlstone is as orthodox as you or I.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, my dear,” returned Mrs. Markham sententiously.  “Heaven only knows what disguises they assume.  Why, Hurlstone and the priest are already as thick as two peas; and you can’t make me believe they didn’t know of each other before we came here.  He was the first one ashore, you remember, before the mutiny; and where did he turn up?—­at the Mission, of course!  And have you forgotten that sleepwalking affair—­all Jesuitical!  Why, poor dear Markham used to say we were surrounded by ramifications of that society—­everywhere.  The very waiter at your hotel table might belong to the Order.”