Jason Weiser

So Donya sat, night after night, playing cards and listening.

Always listening.

Yes, they are gone, I am sure of it.

And some hours ago, it was not likely that they should remain in the country.

No doubt it is as you say.

A voice half whispered from the next table over.

One night, nearly a week after she walked into town,

Donya threw down the cards, selling her exit with a pile of coins on a hand full of nothing, and excused herself.

Excuse me, Donya took a seat without waiting for the men to invite her, and set down her bet.

I think you are speaking of some friends of mine from Seville.

I am of Seville and of Valencia.

The man eyed Donya and stepped into the trap.

And they are not friends, he chuckled, and the table with him.

"'Oh, I have some relations among the noble families of Valencia, "'and, well, if your not friends were anything like them, "'the men were probably laughing with ease "'of how their doleful story loosed your purse strings,' Dunya smirked.

"'The man straightened in his seat as his hands stopped mid-deal.

"'They extracted nothing, but there was no deception.

"'I have never seen men more saturated in fear and shame, "'and these were not men used to shame.'

These were two gentlemen of blood, blood as blue as any in Spain, he fumed, and resumed throwing out the next card.

They were two, steeped in fear, from her hometown, Doña dared to hope.

They told you this?