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64 to seek for shelter. A few days saw them in, at least, safety. But Zoridos was not the man to remain inactive and secure at a time when it was so imperative on every Spaniard who wore a sword to use it. His plans were soon formed—his wife's frantic entreaties were in vain—and he descended into the plain at the head of a gallant band of guerillas. Soon after his departure, it became evident, not only to the nurse, but to every individual in the cottage, that the lady's mind had received a shock, not her health. For days together she did not know them—spoke only in English—addressed her nurse, Marcela, as her mother—and played with the little Beatrice as if she were herself a child, and were delighted with such a living plaything. The first interval he could snatch, Don Henriquez hastened to the cottage. His wife did not know him, shrunk away in pitiable terror from the arms that he wore, and, as if all late events had passed from her memory, only seemed to know that she was spoken to when addressed as Miss Fortescue—by which name she invariably called herself. That night the dark and lonely rocks, where he wandered for hours, were the only witnesses of Zoridos' agony. The next day he was at the British camp. A