When Myra, having recovered herself, went from her state-room into the saloon a little later, it was to find that Don Carlos had, so to speak, “spiked her guns,” had she intended to denounce him as being responsible for the “accident” to Tony.

The captain of the Killarney, it appeared, had held an inquiry as to who was responsible for having left the rail unfastened and charged two members of the crew with neglect. On learning this, Don Carlos had at once interviewed the captain and taken the blame upon himself, explaining that he remembered fingering the bolt while he was talking, and doubtless unfastened it.

He had told his fellow guests the same thing when they praised and complimented him for his gallant rescue.

“Don Carlos is a true sportsman,” said one of the men of the party to Myra. “My own opinion is that he has made up the yarn about unfastening the bolt, just to prevent us making too much of a hero of him and to save any of the crew from getting into trouble. He has been in to see Tony, I hear, told him it was all his fault and asked him to accept his apologies. Of course, his idea is to try to prevent Tony from thanking him. But I guess you will thank him, Miss Rostrevor!”

“Perhaps it would please him better if I reproached him,” responded Myra, whereat her companion laughed.

Don Carlos was seated opposite her at lunch, but Myra did not attempt either to thank or blame him, deciding to wait until he himself referred to the “accident,” and discover, if possible, what was in his mind.

After lunch, most of the other members of the party settled down to spend the afternoon playing bridge, but Myra went on deck and ensconced herself in a comfortable chair in a sheltered spot to read and think.

She had not been there more than a few minutes when Don Carlos appeared beside her chair with a cushion in his hand. Without a word he tossed the cushion down on the boat-deck at Myra’s feet, sat down on it, and rested his dark head against Myra’s knees. He did it all so deliberately and with such calm assurance that Myra was somehow amused in spite of herself and laughed involuntarily.

“Evidently the poor man is so overcome by sea-sickness that he doesn’t know what he is doing and needs a nurse!” she exclaimed. “Shall I call for a steward?”

She slewed her chair round as she spoke, and laughed again as Don Carlos, suddenly deprived of the support of her knees, fell backward. He did not seem in the least disconcerted, however, and merely rolled over on his side, supported his head on one hand, and gazed up at Myra quizzically.

“That was rather the equivalent of unfastening the bolt of the rail, was it not, Myra?” he drawled. “I hope you will now proceed to rescue me from the slough of despond by telling me that you love me and will marry me?”

“You said once that I would be a suitable mate for El er what’s his name? El Cojuelo Diablo, isn’t it? your pet brigand, I mean,” retorted Myra. “Now you are presumably suggesting that I am a fit mate for a man guilty of attempted murder!”

Don Carlos smiled enigmatically.

“El Diablo Cojuelo is the correct name, Myra,” he said in the same lazy, unmoved tone. “If I fail to conquer you and teach you the meaning of love, perhaps El Diablo Cojuelo will. Beloved, I should love to rest my head against your knees and feel your fingers caressing my hair.”

“Don’t be so utterly ridiculous!” exclaimed Myra.

“In novels, as you know,” went on Don Carlos, paying no heed to her protest, “the fair heroine usually marries the gallant who rescues her, or her half-witted brother, or her aged parent, from drowning. You can give the plot a new turn by marrying me for saving your lover from drowning. Mr. Standish was good enough to say that it was ’demmed sporty of me’ to rescue him and that he owes me his life. Why not suggest to him, Myra, that he can best show his gratitude by surrendering to me his greatest pride and treasure you?”

“Your audacity is only equalled by your conceit,” Myra commented. “Let me warn you ”

“Let me warn you, you siren, that I shall go to any lengths to win you,” interrupted Don Carlos with sudden passion. “This morning’s incident was a warning to prove to you I am in earnest. Dios! why do you torture me so? At times you make me hate you almost as much as I love you!”

He sprang to his feet, picked up the cushion on which he had been reclining and hurled it overboard, then strode away without another word, leaving Myra thrilled and more than a little scared.

“It rather looks as if I shall have to take him seriously after all!” she soliloquised. “I wonder what I should do?”

She was left wondering and sorely perplexed, for within an hour she found Don Carlos obviously carrying on a violent flirtation with another girl, and at dinner, at which Tony Standish appeared looking little the worse for his adventure, he was the life and soul of the party.

After dinner he delighted the company by singing some Spanish songs, accompanying himself on the guitar, and he was enthusiastically applauded.

“Why, old chap, you ought to be the star baritone in Grand Opera!” cried Tony. “Sing us another, please.”

“Sorry, but I promised to sing to the crew in the fo’c’sle and I always keep my promises,” responded Don Carlos, and flashed a smiling glance at Myra as he went out.

He became as popular with the crew as with his fellow-guests during the days that followed, and seemed to enjoy himself hugely, a fact which somehow piqued Myra, who felt he had been, and was still, making mock of her. She was forced to the conclusion that his passionate outburst had been merely a clever piece of acting, for he made no further attempt to make love to her during the cruise, and at times seemed to shun her.

“Now that we are in Spain, dear people, you must permit me to try to repay you in some small measure for the wonderful hospitality extended to me in England,” he said to Tony and his guests, when at last they disembarked at Cadiz. “You are my guests from now onward.”

That evening he entertained the whole party royally at the premier hotel of the city, and next morning they found a fleet of luxurious Hispano cars waiting to convey them through some of the most picturesque parts of Spain to El Castillo de Ruiz, his ancestral home, situated in a fertile valley amid the heights of the Sierra Morena.

It was a mediaeval-looking place, part of which had been built by the Moors, and used as a fortress.

“It is still, to some extent, a fortress,” Don Carlos had told his guests in advance, “for always I have to be on the alert lest that rascal El Diablo Cojuelo should raid the place again, and I employ an armed guard. Let me warn you, dear people, that if El Diablo learns I am entertaining a party of wealthy English people he may attempt another raid.”

The others had laughed, assuming that he was jesting. Most of them had decided that Don Carlos had “invented” El Diablo Cojuelo and his brigand gang, with the object of adding a spice of adventure to their visit.

El Castillo de Ruiz was a place of surprises. It looked massive and strong enough to resist an artillery siege, let alone the attack of a few bandits, and its outward appearance immediately gave the impression that a guest would have to expect to endure at least some of the discomforts of the Middle Ages.

Several of the party exchanged glances of dismay as they alighted from their cars in the great cobbled courtyard or patio, to find themselves stared at by a motley crew of men, women and children, and to see pigs, dogs, asses and fowls wandering about.

“Looks as if we’ll have to rough it!” whispered Tony to Myra. “I didn’t expect this sort of thing what?”

Myra made a moue, but did not answer. She was wondering if Don Carlos’s invitation had been by way of an elaborate practical joke, wondering if he intended to subject her to intense discomfort under the guise of hospitality, or if he had some surprise in store.

The first surprise came when she followed Don Carlos into the great hall of the castle to find a retinue of servants in livery, headed by a gorgeously-attired major-domo carrying a silver wand of office, waiting to greet their master and his guests. The hall itself was panelled with polished Spanish mahogany, black with age, and softly illuminated by cunningly-concealed electric lights around the painted roof. There were beautiful Persian and Moorish rugs on the floor, and here and there along the walls there hung paintings by Old Masters between stands of ancient armour.

“Magnificent!” cried Myra in her impulsive way, after a gasp of amazement. “Magnificent! This is the sort of hall one can imagine Velasquez delighting to paint, the fit setting and background for a Spanish Grandee in all his glory.”

“I thank you, senorita,” said Don Carlos, with a low bow. “El Castillo de Ruiz is but a poor background for the most beautiful of women, but you honour it by your presence, and all it contains is yours and at your service. I give you welcome!”

He gave quick orders to the major-domo, who in turn issued orders to the small army of servants men in livery and comely maids in neat black dresses with perky caps and wisps of aprons to escort the guests to their various apartments.

The magnificence of the hall might have prepared Myra for something equally luxurious in other parts of the castle, yet she gasped again in astonishment when she found herself ushered into a bedroom beautifully decorated in dove grey and rose pink, a room in which everything harmonised delightfully. The small casement window, set in a wall three or four feet thick, admitted little light, but that fault was remedied by the fact that the room, like the great hall below, was softly lighted by electricity.

“The senorita would like a bath?” inquired the trim maid in English, opening another door, to reveal a beautifully-appointed little bathroom.

“Why, this is wonderful!” exclaimed Myra, with an involuntary laugh. “I never expected such luxuries in such a grim-looking, old-world place. Tell me, are all the rooms like this?”

“This, senorita, is the most beautiful of all, but all the guests’ rooms are lovely,” the maid answered. “The master himself designed and planned them all. He is wonderful.”

“He certainly is, and I must congratulate him,” said Myra. “Is it true, by the way, that there is a daring brigand lurking about in the mountains around here?”

“You mean El Diablo Cojuelo, senorita?” the maid responded, and instinctively crossed herself. “He has not been seen for months, but his very name still terrifies. He is daring beyond belief, senorita, and no woman is safe from him. The saints forbid that El Diablo Cojuelo should come back while you are here!”

Myra had mentally discounted Don Carlos’s tales about the bandit, just as she had discounted his passionate avowals of love, and she began to feel that she had been doing him an injustice at least as far as El Diablo Cojuelo was concerned.

“Well, he promised me romance, and he certainly seems to have provided the right setting,” she reflected, as she leisurely bathed and changed. “A sort of Aladdin’s palace among the hills of Spain, but fitted up in a way more wonderful than any genii could have contrived. Pigs and fowls and people who look like barbarians outside; all the luxuries of civilisation inside, including an English-speaking maid. And a real live daring brigand apparently lurking about in the mountains. I feel that anything might happen at any minute. This is more like a romantic novel than real life.”

Myra went down to the great hall to find the rest of the guests as enthusiastic as herself about the appointments of the castle.

“You should see my room, my dear,” exclaimed Lady Fermanagh. “It is an exquisite harmony in primrose and pale green that gives one the impression of sunlight and Spring.”

“Mine is decorated in Japanese style,” chimed in Tony. “There are some priceless lacquers on the walls, some exquisite old Japanese prints, and some of the fittings of the dressing-table are of old jade. Actually, I believe Don Carlos must have had the place specially fitted up for me, knowing how keen I am on Japanese things.”

Congratulations were showered on Don Carlos, who shrugged his shoulders and smilingly tried to make light of the whole matter.

“One must have comforts even in the wilds,” he said. “I had the whole place modernised inside as far as possible, without altering its grim exterior, and it amused me to plan the furnishings and colour schemes to suit the tastes of the guests I might be likely to have the honour of entertaining.”

A gong sounded, and the magnificent major-domo appeared to announce that dinner was served, and to lead the guests to the dining-table, the very sight of which evoked rapturous expressions of admiration.

The table was of highly-polished black mahogany, and instead of a fillet of lace there was a slab of pure crystal at every place set for a guest. All the appointments of the table were of crystal and silver, and in its centre there was a great crystal bowl filled with Spring flowers. The effect was strikingly artistic and wholly delightful. The overhead lights reflected the table appointments and the flowers in the surface of the table itself, much in the way that sunlight and shadow reflect the surrounding trees in a dark pool.

“Don Carlos, you are an artist!” exclaimed Myra, who loved beauty. “Your castle is full of surprises.”

“And who knows, dear lady, that I may not have still more surprises in store for you,” responded Don Carlos, with a cryptic smile. “Remember that I always keep my promises.”