whose names you have heard me mention, and
who will not deny you shelter and protection in
your great need. The robbers whose prisoner I
am bid me say that on Wednesday, at noon,
some of the gang will await the payment of my
ransom at the oratory near the village of Santa
Maria del Gloria, at the foot of the mountains
that border the road to Antequera and Madrid.
There the money can be paid in the presence of
the village padre, who is known to the band,
and Moreno has sworn on the crucifix to give
me up unharmed, and not to molest the
messenger. But I have little hope, though I know
you will try to obtain the money, dearest child.
Farewell, dear Alice, God bless you, and Harry
West too. I feel I was harsh with respect to—
but you have my consent now. Bless——"

Here the paper had been torn, probably by
the rough hands of the messenger to whom it
was entrusted, and some lines of writing were
lost. However, the signature, "Philip Croft,"
still remained legible, and beside it was a rude
representation of a cross, traced apparently with
the point of a charred stick, while below it was
written the word "Moreno," in Mr. Croft's
handwriting. No doubt the robber captain had
chosen to add his countersign to the document,
the language of which he was unable to
interpret.

"How shall we save him!" were the words
that broke from the lips of both. I had to
learn, however, that Alice had not sought me in
the first instance. As soon as she received the
pencilled lines, and had rallied from the effects
of the first stunning shock, she had been nerved
to exertion by the thought of her dear father's
danger, and she had gone from place to place,
accompanied by old Seraphina. But in vain.
The most obvious course to pursue, since there
were but a very few dollars in Alice's slender
purse, was to sell the modest furniture of the
little household, but a short interview with a
broker proved the uselessness of this step.
Those humble Lares and Penates would not
bring a fourth of the necessary sum, and the
landlord, too, had claims for the rent of the
current half year. The artist's forebodings with
respect to the liberality of Perez Brothers were
fully realised. Alice begged and prayed, but
the firm refused, blandly but pitilessly, to make
any advance, much less one of five thousand
reals. Mr. Croft, they said, was a very good
draughtsman, but business was business, and
there was no obligation on either side. They
very politely bowed the weeping girl out of their
counting-house. At the British Consulate, Alice
met with no better success. By ill luck the
consul was absent. He would return in three
or four days, but for the moment there was no
help to be looked for in that quarter. Alice had
a few cherished ornaments that had belonged to
her mother. These she had sold, but, alas! they
had produced but eight or nine hundred reals.
And though old Seraphina, who took all the
saints to witness that her master was a good
man, and her young mistress an angel, heretics
or not, came with tears running down her
wrinkled face, and offered her contribution in
the shape of the gold cross she wore on holidays,
and some twenty pillar-dollars saved out of her
wages, nearly four thousand reals remained to
be provided for within a brief delay.

What was to be done? I had not ten pounds
in my possession, and neither I nor the Crofts
had any credit with the bankers or merchants of
Malaga. Captain Meiklejohn, as I knew, had
but cash enough in his cabin locker to pay his
harbour dues and the ship's provisions, and even
if the cautious old Aberdonian would have lent
me the sum required, as I believe he would, it
was out of his power, since his wife, as I knew,
drew his salary while he was away at sea. Only
one hope I had, and that was that the merchants
to whom our cargo was consigned might lend
me the money on my note of hand, backed by
the captain's recommendation. Alice, the good
old Spanish woman, and I, lost no time, late as
it was, in hurrying to the residence of the
gentlemen of whom I have spoken. They were
a well-known firm, Edwards and Son, and had
had many dealings with my employers at
Bristol.

"Mr. Edwards is absent, señor; he went
yesterday by the steamer to Barcelona," said
the servant who opened the door.

"Mr. James Edwards?" asked I, as my
heart sank.

The man arched his eyebrows. He
wondered, he said, that I was not aware that Mr.
James had been away from Malaga this week
past. He was amusing himself, shooting and
coursing, at a friend's country-house somewhere
near Xeres de la Frontera. He was expected
back for the grand bull-fight to-morrow. Mr.
James had too much good taste to miss such a
spectacle as that, Pedro was sure.

I turned away, feeling the bitterness of hope
deferred. Still, there was hope. Mr. James
Edwards was a very good-natured young man,
not so often to be found in the counting-house
as his steady and punctual father, but he had
always been civil to me in our business
transactions. If he should really be back in time for
the bull-fight, which I now remembered was to
take place on the following day, he might be
persuaded to lend the needful sum. At any
rate, no more could be done on that night. It
was getting late. The lamps fixed beneath the
effigies of saints, and the few street lights, were
already shining yellow through the darkness,
and from tertulia gardens and the windows of
wine-shops came the tinkling sound of guitars
and castanets, with that of voices singing or
brawling, and the clink of glasses and stamping
of feet. It was time for Alice to go home and
take some rest—rest, that would be needed to
recruit her strength for the toil of to-morrow.
I walked beside her through the dark streets,
but we did not converse much. Each of us
was discouraged and full of sad forebodings,
and when I had said "Good night" with forced
cheerfulness, and gone upon my way, the
recollection of Alice Croft's pale face and wistful