The taller woman led her shrinking companion straight up to the two officers, and put back her mantilla with one thin hand. A handsome, careworn face was disclosed. The lady was no longer in the first blush of youth, but her features were fine, her eyes dark and liquid, and her bearing that of a princess. She addressed the two officers in Spanish, speaking in a voice that retained its natural dignity in spite of evident agitation. ‘Señors, you are English. I implore your aid!’

‘Anything in our power, señora!’ Kincaid replied promptly. A look of relief spread over the strained face. ‘You speak Spanish!’ ‘Tolerably well, señora, but not as well as my friend here, I believe.’ The lady’s eyes turned towards Harry, slight and wiry, and a little fidgety beside his tall friend. He bowed, but he knew that there was nothing any officer could do to help a Spaniard from Badajos, and wished that Kincaid would make an end.

The lady seemed to feel his impatience, and addressed herself again to Kincaid. ‘Señor, you must wonder at my coming into your camp thus unattended. I am of the family of Los Dolores de León. If you doubt me, let me but be brought to Colonel Campbell, or Lord Fitzroy Somerset, for they know me well!’

Her tongue tripped a little over the names, but Kincaid nodded his understanding. She continued anxiously: ‘We are of the true hidalgo blood, señor. Lord Fitzroy would know. After the battle of Talavera, he and Colonel Campbell were billeted in my house. You recall?’ ‘Yes, I recall. We made Badajos our General Headquarters.’

‘It is so. I know well Lord Wellington. But then, alas, we were of consequence, señor! rich, respected! All that is gone. This war! You understand, it was from the olive groves that we had our fortune. But the accursed French have ravaged all, all!’

Her eyes flashed, her bosom heaved. Kincaid intervened, saying, with a questioning lift of his brows at Harry: ‘Yes, indeed I understand! But you must not stand here, señora. Will you not come into the tent? Harry, you’ve got two chairs!’

The lady murmured her thanks; Brigade-Major Smith, casting an extremely speaking glance upon his friend, did the honours of his tent, setting two camp-chairs for his unwanted guests. The smaller figure, who had not yet put back the mantilla from her face, seemed to be half-unconscious, for she hung heavily on her companion’s arm, and when put gently into her chair, sank down as though exhausted, and gave no other sign of life than the shudders which from time to time shook her frame. These convulsive rigors had the effect of riveting Harry’s attention upon her. His keen eyes were unable to pierce the veil that hid her face from him, but he saw that her hands, which were tightly clasped in her lap, were small and smooth, the hands of a young girl. He could fancy that from behind the mantilla her eyes, perhaps as large and as fine as her companion’s, were watching him. His interest was aroused; he waited for her to put back her veil, attending only with, half an ear to what the elder lady was telling Kincaid.

The lady’s agitation made her lose some of the calm which seemed, from her periodic attempts to recapture it, almost a part of her nature. She recounted her story disjointedly, dwelling upon irrelevancies, and several times assuring Kincaid that she was nobly born, and that such an excursion as this, into the English camp, could never have been undertaken by her except under the stress of direst need.

She was married, she said to a Spanish officer, fighting in a distant part of the kingdom, but whether he lived, or was dead; she knew not. Until yesterday, she and her young sister were living in quiet and affluence in one of the best houses in Badajos. A gesture indicated the figure at her side.

‘Today, señor, we know not where to lay our heads, where to get a change of raiment, or even a morsel of food! My house is a wreck, all our furniture broken or carried off, ourselves exposed to insult and brutality-ah, if you do not believe me, look at my ears, how they are torn by those wretches wrenching the rings out of them!’

She pointed to her neck, which was blood-stained. Kincaid spoke soothingly to her; his easy sympathy had the effect of calming her. She pressed her handkerchief to her lips, and tried to speak more quietly. ‘For myself, I care not! I have friends who will assist me to go to my husband. I am no longer young; I do not fear! But for this child, this poor little sister who has but just come to me from the convent where she has been educated, I am in despair, and know not what to do! Señor, do you know, have you seen the ruin that is desolating the city? There is no security there, there is only rapine and slaughter! I cannot take her with me, perhaps into worse danger! There was only one thing that I could do. Indelicate it must seem to you, yet oh, señor, in your national character I have such faith that I believe my appeal will not be made in vain, nor my confidence abused! We have come to throw ourselves upon the protection of any English officer whose generosity will afford it us!’

‘Señora, upon my word of honour as a gentleman, you have nothing to fear in this camp,’ Kincaid said. ‘Every protection-’

She brushed his words aside, as though impatient of them. ‘I need nothing. There are those who will assist me to find my husband. It is for my sister, who is so young, that I implore your kindness!’

She had been clasping the girl in her arms as she spoke, but she released her now, and murmuring some fondness, put back the mantilla from her face.

The sweetest little face Kincaid had ever seen was thus revealed. It was woefully pale, and of a fairness of skin more English than Spanish. The eyes, under rather strongly marked brows, were large, dilated a little with lingering terror, but of a soft brilliance which dazzled Kincaid into thinking that he beheld a beauty. But she was not strictly beautiful. Her little nose was not classic; her mouth was too large, and with a full underlip rather firmly supporting the upper, in a way which gave a great deal of character to the face, and some impression of stubbornness. This was borne out by a decided chin, rounded, to be sure, but no weakling’s chin, as Kincaid saw at a glance.

He felt his heart melt within him; his ready tongue faltered; he could think of nothing to say, and looked helplessly towards Harry.

Then he was startled, for Harry was not looking at him, but at the girl, still leaning against her sister’s shoulder. Kincaid saw to his amazement that he was perfectly white under his tan, with a queer, set look in his face, that made him seem suddenly much older, almost a stranger.

The girl looked back at him. The fright was fading from her eyes; the glimmer of a smile crept into them, just a hint of mischief in it.

‘What is your name?’ Harry said. Kincaid did not know that voice; it did not sound like Harry’s.

‘Juana,’ the girl answered, like a sigh.

‘Juana!’ Harry repeated it, lingering a little over its gentle syllables. ‘How old are you?’ he asked, softly, as though by the lowering of his voice he sought to exclude her sister, and Kincaid.

‘I am now more than fourteen, señor,’ she said. ‘Fourteen!’

Kincaid reflected that southern girls ripened quickly. He had supposed Juana to be seventeen; she had the figure of a girl verging on womanhood. He wished that it was on him that her gaze rested so steadfastly, but he saw that Harry filled her vision. His inches and his charm had never stood him in less stead. She was not aware of him.

Harry was looking at the trickle of blood upon her neck. Kincaid saw his lower lip quiver. He put out one of his thin, strong hands. It shook slightly as he touched Juana’s little torn ear. ‘They hurt you-querida!’

The endearment slipped unconsciously from his tongue. She replied simply: ‘Yes. It is nothing, however,’

‘God damn them!’ Harry said, in English, and under his breath, ‘God damn their souls to hell!’

She sat up, disengaging herself from the sister’s embrace. The fright had quite disappeared; a delicate colour had come into her cheeks; her mouth began to tilt at the corners. It gave her an enchanting look, but it was decidedly mischievous: not a doubt of that, thought Kincaid, silently adoring the pretty creature.

‘Please, I do not understand English,’ Juana said.

‘I will teach you,’ Harry answered, in a lover’s voice, smiling down into her eyes. ‘

Will you let me take care of you, mi pobrecita?’

She nodded trustfully. ‘Toda mi vida!’ he said, as though recording a vow.

Good God, where is this leading us? thought Kincaid, catching the low-spoken words. All my life indeed! Harry, take care!

Juana seemed to think the promise quite natural. She gave back Harry’s smile with such a beaming look in her own dark eyes that Kincaid was not surprised to see Harry lift her hand to his lips.

‘I do not know your name, señor?’ Juana suggested hopefully. ‘Harry Smith,’ he replied, holding her hand between both of his.

She repeated it hesitantly. ‘Harry?’ she said, trilling it, and shaking her head at her own pronunciation.

‘Enrique,’ he translated.

That pleased her; her whole face quickened with sudden laughter. ‘I like it better so!’ ‘Señor!’ the sister intervened. ‘May I count upon your protection for this fatherless child?’ Harry replied, without taking his eyes from Juana’s face: ‘She stays with me. You need have no fear. I will arrange everything.’

Kincaid, aghast, thought it time to call a halt. He touched Harry’s arm, saying in English: ‘Harry, what the devil are you about? She can’t stay with you! A child-a lady!’ ‘She’s not a child. Oh, in years-!’

‘But you crazy fool, you can’t keep her with you! A gently-born girl, reared in a convent, thrown upon your generosity-’