Waiting alone in the little walled garden, with the quixotic, eternal plaintive braying of the Don’s llamas wafting in from outside, the frightened girl thought once more of Charity ben Cleveland, the bold bandito who had been so gentle in her arms. He was now, according to the letter on the bureau, a prisoner in the very castle he had once owned.
   It was then that came the sound of her own name being called, and she struggled in vain with her sudden panic. He was here! “I’ve been mad, simply mad, without you to douse my fires, baby doll!” he said in his halting Spanish.
   Abruptly, it dawned on her that her days of loneliness were over, and as he once again began to woo her with the sensual voice of his Stradivarius, she started to think about what they would call their children.