All this time the good Don Manuel was patiently waiting for an explanation, and the more the duenna explained the more perplexed he found himself.

Gomez Arias at last, after several fruitless endeavours to stop Martha's tongue, availed himself of a momentary pause she made to take breath.—"Don Manuel de Monteblanco," said he, "is undoubtedly anxious to learn the object of my visit to his house."

"Visit!" exclaimed the duenna. "Intrusion—a downright taking by storm.—God bless me! a visit you call it—- a visit!"

"Silence, Martha, silence; let the gentleman proceed," cried Don Manuel, a little more composed, and feeling an inward dread at the matron's explanatory talents.

"Don Manuel," continued Gomez Arias, "I am exceedingly concerned for the confusion created in the mansion of so honorable a cavalier; but certainly I am not so greatly to blame as that good woman wishes to imply."

"Good woman, indeed!" ejaculated the duenna. "Jesus me valga! that I should live to be so called—soy Cristiana vieja[16]—and of as good a family as needs be.—No Jewish puddle in my veins.—Good woman, forsooth! My dear master, am I to be called a good woman?"

Don Manuel looked very grave, not so much perhaps at the difficulty of resolving the question, as at the probability of never obtaining a knowledge of the business so long as the duenna had the free use of her tongue; to quiet therefore her anger, the complaisant old cavalier kindly soothed her apparently wounded feelings, by allowing that she by no means deserved the appellation.

Silence being thus restored, Gomez Arias continued: "The cause of my apparent intrusion is simply this:—informed by my servant that Don Rodrigo de Cespedes was in active search after me, and not wishing to be backward in acknowledging the favor, I thought it incumbent on my honor to facilitate a meeting with the utmost expedition. I repaired to this house, from whence my servant had seen that gentleman issue, but before the nature of my business could be disclosed, that rigid dame assailed me with a tremendous storm of abuse, when my valet, in his zeal to serve me, or rather indulging in a propensity to retaliate, retorted the lady's freedom of tongue with rather too much acrimony."

"Now," thought Roque, "it is really too bad to accuse me of acrimony when I have not opened my lips."

"I attempted an explanation," continued Gomez Arias, "in the hopes of meeting with a more courteous reception, when this young lady made her appearance (turning to Theodora). I was then about to acquaint her with my intention, when fortunately the object of my search presents himself in person, a circumstance which I hail with the more pleasure, as I am assured that Don Rodrigo is particularly anxious we should renew an old interchange of tokens of our mutual regard."

"Senor Don Lope Gomez Arias," replied Don Rodrigo, sorely incensed at the tone of levity in which he was addressed by his rival, "I likewise congratulate myself in thus accidentally meeting with Don Lope sooner than I was led to expect, and though the mock courtesy of his style plainly indicates the reliance he places on the constant good fortune that protects him, yet he shall find me more solicitous than ever for the immediate interchange of the tokens to which he so facetiously alludes."

"Senor Don Rodrigo de Cespedes," returned Gomez Arias, "I cannot but greatly admire that laudable ambition which stimulates you to deeds of noble daring, and an unworthy individual like myself cannot feel sufficiently grateful for the honor you wish to confer upon him."

These words and the sarcastic sneer that accompanied them, exasperated Don Rodrigo to such a degree, that turning to his rival, he pointed to the door, and without further reply intimated to him to follow. Gomez Arias was about to comply, when Monteblanco interposing, exclaimed,

"Forbear, caballeros, forbear; this is my house, and though I am far from desiring to withhold any gentlemen from the calls of honor, yet let it not be said that my mansion was made a scene of violence and bloodshed."

"Valgame Dios!" cried Roque, "Don Manuel speaks like an oracle. Nor do I think myself, this hour of night the most fit to decide such important matters. Broad day-light is certainly preferable to the glimmer of the moon and stars, for business like this."

Theodora was ready to sink with emotion and fear, but the very imminence of the danger inspired her with a sort of desperate tranquillity. She knew that her interposition would only increase the perplexities of her situation, without preventing the accomplishment of their design. Besides, she placed much confidence in her lover's courage and superior skill in the management of arms, and ultimately she possessed that nobleness of mind that shrinks from the imputation of cowardice in the object of its admiration.

Monteblanco's remonstrances were vain. Don Rodrigo rushed to the door with desperate haste, and Gomez Arias followed with the coolness of one to whom such scenes were familiar.

"Follow me," cried Don Rodrigo, as he bounded down the stairs with fearful alacrity.

"Stay, Don Rodrigo," said Gomez Arias, sarcastically, "not such precipitation, or you may perchance fall before your time."

This provoking sarcasm entirely overthrew the little remaining temper which Don Rodrigo possessed. His eyes flashed fire, his whole frame shook, and unable to restrain himself any longer, he furiously drew his sword, and fixed on the Zaguan[17] for the field of action.

"Defend yourself, Don Lope," exclaimed he, with frenzied rage.

"Look to yourself, fair Sir," returned Don Lope, as, unsheathing his rapier, he calmly placed himself in a posture of defence.

With impetuous fury Don Rodrigo darted on his antagonist, and commenced an assault with all the courage and address of a practised swordsman. Thrust succeeded thrust with mortal rapidity, but the active eye of Gomez Arias foiled their deadly aim with consummate skill and dexterity. A demoniac spirit seemed to agitate Don Rodrigo, and he continued for some minutes wasting his strength in the fruitless attack, and impairing his own means of resistance. The combat was too fierce to be of long duration, and a few moments would have brought it to a mortal issue (for Don Lope was now in his turn about to press hard his weakened adversary), had not Roque, in that tenderness of conscience for which he was so noted, very adroitly extinguished the light that hung in the Zaguan, as the most effectual way of suspending hostilities.

The place was thus plunged in utter darkness, and Don Rodrigo, afraid of being disappointed in his revenge, called out to Gomez Arias.

"I am here," replied Don Lope; "I am here, Don Rodrigo; the light is superfluous; we shall do perfectly well without it, for a mutual sympathy will lead our weapons aright."

The swords again met, and short, quick sparks of light, like the fugitive flash of a summer's exhalation, gave a momentary glimpse of the combatants' fearful countenances—then a dismal groan is heard, a body falls heavily on the ground, and a shriek of horror burst from the household, who had crowded round the entrance of the Zaguan.

"He is dead," muttered Don Rodrigo to himself, and sought for safety with the swiftness of lightning.

"Bring torches," cried Monteblanco; "let us afford the fallen caballero all the assistance in our power."

The state of Theodora baffles all description. Ignorant as yet who was the victim, her soul was harrowed up with the most fearful apprehensions, the reality of which would dash the cup of happiness from her lips, and embitter her future existence. This petrifying, this heart-rending suspense was happily but of short continuance. Theodora herself, with breathless anxiety, was the first to bring a torch, that might perhaps illume the pale ghastly features of him on whom she had centered all her felicity. The moment was awful, when the torch throwing a broad glare around the Zaguan, discovered Gomez Arias, tranquil and erect, in all the assurance of perfect safety. A faint scream escaped from the bosom of his mistress, for all the feelings which horrifying suspense had held imprisoned there, now sought relief in a tumult of sighs and tears. Her emotion, however, was scarcely noticed by her father, too much occupied at the time in ascertaining which was the fallen cavalier.

"Don Rodrigo is then the victim," sorrowfully exclaimed the old cavalier, casting his eyes around; for at this moment he spied a human body, lying in a dark corner of the Zaguan.

"It moves—it moves!" cried Martha, crossing herself.

"Then he is yet alive," returned Don Manuel; "let us hasten to succour the unfortunate young man; look to his wounds!"

"Aye," responded the duenna; "let us rather attend to his soul, and behave like true charitable Christians; run, Cacho, run, and call Fray Bernardo, or Fray Benito—no matter whom—any friar will do at such a moment."

Monteblanco and all his attendants hurried to the spot in their eagerness to render assistance to the fallen Don Rodrigo, when, lo! the body with a sudden spring bounds on its legs, and to the astonished eyes of every one discovers the person of Roque.

"What's this? Where is Don Rodrigo?" interrogated Monteblanco.

"Why," answered Roque, very unconcernedly; "some fifty leagues from hence, I should imagine, by his hurry to get away."

"Then he is not dead?"

"Not that I know of."

"Whence came that groan?"

"De este humilde pecador."[18]

"Jesus Maria," ejaculated the duenna; "how dare this judio[19] throw a noble family into consternation?"

"Now, Senora duenna," quoth the valet, "I rather think I have been instrumental in preventing the noble family from being thrown into that consternation."

"Roque," interposed here Gomez Arias, "thou art not wounded I perceive."

"No, thank God!" replied Roque.

"Then thou art a rascal."

"A rascal because I am not wounded! Good Heaven! here's a consequence with a vengeance!"

"This is an impudent interference," continued Don Lope, "and dearly shalt thou rue it."

"An impudent interference do you call it? A marvellous good one, in sooth, for I have saved the fruitless effusion of noble Christian blood, and I have separated two enraged combatants better than a whole posse of alguazils: and now, all the reward I am likely to obtain for such an important service, is threats and abuse. Here is my dear master sorely exasperated, because I have a greater regard for his safety than he has himself, and quite disappointed at not being run through the body by that sanguinary Don Rodrigo."

"Basta, basta," said angrily Don Lope;—then in a gentler tone he continued, "I am really concerned for Don Rodrigo,—full of anxiety for my supposed death, I venture to say he is now flying from the abode of man, to seek a shelter in the wilderness of the Alpujarras.

"It is very Christian-like in you, Senor," interposed Roque, "to show so much solicitude for the fate of Don Rodrigo. Well, the ways of honorable gentlemen are to me unaccountable. Here was my honorable master, but a short while since, eagerly seeking the life of Don Rodrigo at the point of his rapier, and now he is equally anxious that his adversary should not be exposed to the inconvenience of a nocturnal ramble into the mountains of Alpujarras."

Monteblanco could not but inwardly congratulate himself upon the fortunate termination of an adventure which threatened such serious results; for he by no means liked the idea of having a corpse in his house, with all the unpleasant appendages necessarily attendant on such an inmate. He certainly felt concerned for the safety and comfort of Don Rodrigo, but he very judiciously opined it was better his dear friend should suffer the inconvenience of passing a night in the mountains, than that he himself should be exposed to the unpleasant consequences which would inevitably attend a fatal result to either party, especially had the event occurred in his own Zaguan; for he would be thus compelled to take a part in the drama, with which he would very willingly dispense—that of explaining the catastrophe to the officers of justice. This consideration induced him to approve in his own mind the stratagem of Roque, although he would by no means audibly testify his approbation, thinking very properly that the conduct of inferiors and dependants should never be lauded, even when they are most successful in their services.

Acting upon this charitable principle, he would on no account interfere to prevent the taunts and abuse with which the luckless valet was assailed on all sides. Thus poor Roque had a fresh opportunity of discovering the little a man is likely to gain by following the impulse of a good heart, and the very extraordinary way men have of acknowledging a service, even when they are internally well pleased therewith.

"Begone, thou graceless dog!" exclaimed Don Manuel. "Thy impertinence justly deserves most exemplary punishment from thy master."

Saying this, he took his daughter by the hand, made a slight bow to Gomez Arias, and was about to retire, when Don Lope stept forward as though he wished to detain him.

"Stay, Don Manuel," said he; "I cannot leave your house, without again expressing my regret for the disturbance I have caused. I sincerely offer you my apologies as an honorable cavalier, and as such I am confident Don Manuel de Monteblanco will accept them. Moreover, I shall make all the atonement in my power; and as it is obvious that my servant is the primary cause of all the mischief, you may rest assured, Sir, the culprit shall not escape without condign and adequate punishment."

Don Manuel expressed himself perfectly satisfied with the apology of Gomez Arias, and most graciously accepted the atonement proposed; then making another bow, not quite so slight as the former, left the Zaguan accompanied by his beautiful daughter, who had already caught the eloquent parting look of her lover, and treasured in her bosom all the tender sentiments it conveyed.

Meantime, Don Lope, well contented with himself, haughtily called to poor Roque—the faithful valet was in a moment ready to lead the way. His master then very composedly returned to his apartments to muse over the adventures of the evening, and form plans for the successful accomplishment of his ulterior projects.



CHAPTER VII.

Pariome a drede mi Madre Oxala no me pariera!—

Quevedo.

No ill luck stirring, but what lights on my shoulders.

Shakespeare.

"Better be born fortunate than rich," says an old proverb, and the correctness of this saying was fully exemplified in the life of Don Rodrigo de Cespedes. Indeed, his whole existence had been a series of mischances and unfortunate results; and he appeared especially reserved as a proper subject on whom the fickle goddess might exercise her caprice at leisure.

Why Don Rodrigo should belong to this class, is more than can well be resolved, for he was possessed of all those qualifications which are calculated to render a man brilliant in society, and amiable in private life. He enjoyed the advantages of birth and wealth; handsome in his person, and elegant in his address. A brave soldier in war, and a courteous cavalier in peace, it appeared natural that his fortune should be prosperous, and yet all those endowments availed him not. On the contrary, they only served to render the ill success of his undertakings the more remarkable.

These anomalies cannot be accounted for on any rational principle; but may perhaps be attributed to the absence of that requisite qualification, which sometimes serves a man in lieu of birth or fortune, and not unfrequently goes further than both these advantages;—it is that most enviable requisite, known under the appropriate, though somewhat vulgar, denomination of good-luck.

Don Rodrigo had paid his addresses to three different ladies, with the moral and highly creditable intention of entering the holy state of matrimony. Perhaps in strict justice it must be confessed, this idea crossed his mind after having completely failed in his attempts to signalize himself as un homme a bonnes fortunes, a sort of ambition which, if not praise-worthy in itself, is nevertheless, when successfully pursued, conducive to the eclat of a man of rank, as well as gratifying to his vanity. Indeed it may be rather suspected, without any great affectation of discernment, that the unlucky Don Rodrigo bethought himself of marriage as a last resource, when ultimately convinced of his inability to succeed in his career of gallantry. But even in this instance, that unrelenting fatality which constantly followed him, could not be persuaded to spare him even in consideration of hymen.

Don Rodrigo had first for a rival a man whose stature was rather under than over four feet, whose features were of the most forbidding kind; his person distorted, and his fortune by no means superior to that of the Don; yet with all these disadvantages, this little monster, to the astonishment of every one, carried off the fair prize.

He next placed his affections on a lady of more humble pretensions, his inferior both in birth and fortune, and by no means remarkable for beauty. Don Rodrigo fondly imagined that his rank and affluence would insure him success; nor did he overlook the advantages nature had given him in a pair of fine eyes, an aquiline nose, well proportioned limbs, a carriage that shewed off these qualifications to advantage, and a degree of personal courage that even his rivals and enemies respected; but his Angelica must have been an admirer of the opposite qualities, as she chose for her husband an obscure plebeian, whom the very sight of a Toledo steel threw into an ague. Disgusted with the bad taste and vulgarity of those he had already courted, he boldly resolved to prefer his suit to the very first lady in the land. He accordingly laid siege to the heart of Leonor, but here his pretensions met with as decided a repulse as before, and though his vanity could not have been wounded by having Gomez Arias for his fortunate rival, yet, soured by his repeated crosses, he determined, if he could not by gentle means succeed in his object, to kill his rival or fall in the attempt: his success in this last exploit the reader will perhaps remember.

Nor was the ill-luck of Don Rodrigo confined to his amours; it extended to all his affairs. If he engaged in a duel, a wound was generally the result; or if he escaped unhurt, though he might have been the injured party, yet by some fatality he was sure to be accounted the aggressor. If he happened to say a good thing, it was invariably attributed to another person, while, if a piece of scurrility or a foolish remark circulated, he never failed to have the whole merit to himself.

We need not, however, go further for instances to exemplify the ill-luck that constantly attended Don Rodrigo. We see him at present a prey to his evil genius. He left the Zaguan of Monteblanco's dwelling with the utmost precipitation. Impressed with the idea that he had killed his rival; and, fully sensible of the necessity of speedy flight, he hurried to the inn for his horse and valet, anxious to put in practice his prudential resolution, before any impediment could be thrown in his way. On his arrival he asked for his man Peregil; but Peregil, as if on purpose to perplex him, was gone to evening prayers, which Don Rodrigo very naturally interpreted, to the tavern. So he sent a boy there, with instructions where he was to meet him out of the town. He then hastened to the stable, but found, to his unspeakable mortification, that Peregil, in his abundant care, had taken the key. Time being precious, Don Rodrigo, afraid of causing a disturbance, was fain to avail himself of the benefit of an ill-favoured looking mule that stood ready saddled in an outhouse. He doubted not that Peregil would bring his horse after him, and render compensation for the mule, which indeed, from the miserable appearance of the beast, would be no difficult matter.

Accordingly, after making his way to the place appointed, he waited two whole hours in a state of extreme anxiety and suspense, alarmed at every noise lest it should be a pursuit, and only consoling himself with the idea, that when his horse should arrive he could soon place himself out of the reach of danger.

At length he descried his valet advancing at a most leisurely pace, not mounted on his own strong horse, and leading a beautiful Arabian, but bestriding a miserable jackass, which required constant application of the whip. Of this Peregil was by no means sparing, to induce him to move at even the slowest pace a jackass is capable of travelling.

"Peregil, thou imp of Satan, where is my horse?" impatiently demanded Don Rodrigo.

"At the inn," sullenly answered the valet.

"At the inn, thou rascal! why didst thou not bring it, knowing, as you ought, that my life is in jeopardy?"

"For a very good reason," replied Peregil, "because they would not let me. You need only blame yourself, Senor, for since your honor scruples not to make free with the reverend friar's mule, you ought not to be surprised if his reverence takes the same liberty with your horse."

"By Santiago de Compostela,[20] this is past bearing," cried Don Rodrigo. "How can the rogue of a friar conscientiously take my beautiful Arabian for this worthless mule? What! has the man of God no conscience?"

"I did not inquire that, Senor, but I rather think he is not overburthened by the manner he has dealt with me.—Oh! if I could catch his reverence by himself, I would so belabour his shaven skull, as not to leave it in want of razors for the future."

"Well, but how comest thou by that contemptible jackass?" demanded Don Rodrigo, angrily.

"Gently, Senor, gently; since the master shows such a predilection for mules, it is not to be wondered if the valet evinces a similar taste for jackasses."

"Villain! darest thou jest at this time and on such a subject?"

"Aye, 'tis no laughing matter, sure enough," quoth Peregil; "and in sooth I cannot perceive why I should be facetious on the occasion, for after all I am the greater loser of the two. Look for a moment at this vile beast! May the lightning of heaven and the curses of all the saints fall on him and his former master too;" and so saying he again belaboured the sides of the unfortunate jackass, regretting that its former master was not near enough to benefit by the energetic blows he so liberally dealt out.

"A truce, fellow, with thy profane foolery," said Don Rodrigo; "it is not seemly when the life of thy master is at stake. Prepare to give me a full and circumstantial account of this iniquitous business, or by my sword thou shalt severely rue the day thy master first bestrode a mule."

"Alack a-day," submissively rejoined the valet.—"You must know, Don Rodrigo, that the mule is the cause of all this. When I returned from church I was startled to see the inn thrown into the greatest confusion. The reverend fat friar was running round the place bellowing like a bull, calling for his noble mule, and vowing vengeance on the profane thief, which unseemly appellation he was pleased to bestow upon your honor."

"The friar must have been drunk," said Don Rodrigo, sneeringly; "why! did he not perceive that I had left my steed in the stable, which I think was sufficient security, till you could pay him the value of his beggarly mule!"

"Sure enough he did perceive it, but when I proposed to pay him for his loss, he demanded such an exorbitant price that it was out of my power to comply therewith. In his opinion, the steed was no adequate compensation for his mule; so to make matters even, and adjust the affair amicably, he proposed that I should give up my horse into the bargain, and then take this abominable ass as a present."

Peregil accompanied the epithet with another donation of his wonted favors.

"Thou miserable sinner," said Don Rodrigo, "how couldst thou consent to this nefarious arrangement?"

"Because I could not help it. Think you, Senor mio, I would have agreed to such an extortion had it been in my power to avoid it? But your precipitate flight gave me to understand that you had killed your adversary. Any delay in the town might have been attended with danger, backed as his reverence was by all the rabble of the inn."

Don Rodrigo was sensible of the force of this argument, and after bestowing sundry anathemas on the cheating friar and the inn, in which he was zealously joined by Peregil, he said in a melancholy tone, "Well, as there is no remedy, we must put up with this misfortune as well as we can."

"So we must, Senor," replied Peregil; "and at least there is some consolation in the reflection that we are already on such familiar terms with dame Fortune, that this new instance of her good-will ought by no means to take us by surprise.—But may I ask whither we are going?"

"To seek refuge in the mountains," gloomily answered Don Rodrigo.

"Well, may the help of God be with us!" ejaculated Peregil, "for we stand marvellously in need of it."

Saying this, they bent their course to the Alpujarras, as melancholy and slowly as suited the condition and convenience of the animals that bore them. Indeed, from time to time, the reverend mule actually stood still, as if pondering what he should do, and it required all Don Rodrigo's caresses (for he dared employ no other means) to induce her to proceed.

Thus the distressed master and his humble valet continued their march, for the space of three hours, in a most gloomy night. Observing at length that his servant made a dead stop, Don Rodrigo determined to assist him, and accordingly indicated his intention to the mule; but to his utter dismay he found that she had profited by the good example set by her companion the ass, and stood stone still. This obstinacy of their animals proved more than equal to the powers of Don Rodrigo and his man, who, after exhausting their strength in fruitless chastisement, prudently resolved to wait the leisure of their more determined companions. They took shelter, therefore, under the spreading branches of a large tree, and there they remained in anxious expectation of day-break, passing the tedious hours in silent and profound reflections on their miserable condition.



CHAPTER VIII.

O gran contrasto in giovenil pensiero, Desir di laude ed impeto d'Amore; Ne chi piu vaglia ancor si trova il vero, Che resta or questo, or quello superiore.

Ariosto.

At first a vague suspicion, a blind dread, Then a quick feeling of the fatal truth Instinctive flashed across her mind.

Wiffin's Tasso.

The first rosy tints of morning at length began to appear, and the heavy clouds of night were gradually rolling away before the splendour of the approaching sun, when Don Manuel de Monteblanco, who was already on the alert, received information that a party of horsemen were rapidly approaching the mansion. The old cavalier hastened to a spot whence he could descry his visitors, and form a judgment of their quality. The party consisted of an armed knight, and about half a dozen men-at-arms, bounding over the elastic turf, with the greatest buoyancy of spirits. Don Manuel, who stood watching their advance, was soon able to recognize, in the martial figure and gallant carriage of the knight, his young friend and kinsman, Don Antonio de Leyva, of whose arrival he had been in daily expectation. The youthful warrior was clad in a suit of polished steel armour, inlaid with silver; a quantity of massy and waving red plumage almost overshaded his shining helmet, and threw a crimson flush over his manly countenance, in which an expression of resolute courage was blended with an air of gaiety and frankness. The colour of his cheek was heightened by exercise, and the brilliancy of his dark blue eyes expressed an unusual degree of animation, whilst his blooming age and the gracefulness of his carriage tended to increase the interest of his commanding appearance. He was mounted on a fiery and slender barb, decorated with the most costly trappings, which appeared to participate in the buoyancy of the rider; for he champed the bit and shook off the white foam, requiring all the dexterity of his master to restrain the impetuosity of his nature.

The small party which accompanied the youthful warrior were arrayed in the military costume of the period. They served Don Antonio as an escort, and belonged to the body of which he was the leader. Upon their arrival the massy doors of the mansion were thrown open, and the venerable Monteblanco stood at the entrance ready to receive his noble visitor. The next moment Don Antonio, springing from his steed, threw himself into the arms that hospitably invited him to their embrace.

"Welcome, Don Antonio, thrice welcome to the abode of your old friend and kinsman."

"Save you, noble Don Manuel; it rejoices me to see that the hand of time has made so little impression upon you; your spirits are still young and ardent. How does the fair Theodora?"

"Blooming as the rose of summer, fair as the lily of the valley, and blithesome as the free tenant of the air," replied the fond father; "but come in," he continued, with joyful accents; "come and refresh yourself. Pedro," he then added, turning to his major-domo, a long, thin, grave looking personage, "mind that these cavaliers," pointing to Don Antonio's attendants, "are well entertained."

Then taking his relative by the hand, he led him into the mansion.

"Theodora," he then resumed, "is as yet at her morning orisons, in the company of good Martha, but on an occasion like the present, there would be no great sin in shortening her devotions."

"By no means," replied Don Antonio, smiling; "it is not my maxim to disturb fair ladies when so laudably occupied."

"Well, my young friend, as you please; but, good heavens!" continued he, surveying his guest from head to foot, with much complacency, "how you are altered! It is a goodly and consoling sight to see the improvement a few years bestow on a young man. You have distinguished yourself at the games," said Don Manuel; "this is a source of unspeakable joy to me, the more so, as it appears that the queen has been pleased to reward your merit. I have heard that you are entrusted with the command of a party of those gallant men, that are destined to chastise the rebellious Moors of the Alpujarras."

"In truth," modestly answered Don Antonio, "our great queen has condescended to honor me far above my deserts; but I trust that my future conduct will make me worthy of the confidence she has reposed in me."

"I suppose, then," said Don Manuel, "that your stay at Guadix will be but short?"

"Very short; as I am only allowed to wait the arrival of my party, and must then set off immediately to join the army under the command of the noble Aguilar."

"Then, my dear kinsman," observed Monteblanco, smiling, "the object of your visit must be accomplished without further delay."

"I shall never complain of too much expedition when the happiness of my life is so intimately concerned."

At this moment the door of the saloon was thrown open, and Theodora was ceremoniously ushered in by the stately duenna, who, after making a stiff and formal courtsey, sunk back, and kept a respectful distance.

"Dear child," said Don Manuel, "here is your kinsman, Don Antonio de Leyva, with whom you are already acquainted. He appears in our house as best becomes a gallant knight; his brow adorned with the wreath of triumph for the skill and prowess he has displayed in the games, a sure omen of his future glory in the field."

Theodora offered her hand to the salutation of her kinsman, with an attempt at cordiality; but it was evidently an effort to hide the real coldness she felt; for an involuntary tremor crept gradually over her, and her countenance betrayed strong symptoms of emotion, as she began to suspect the object of Don Antonio's visit. Indeed, the tone of ease and affection, in which her father and young de Leyva conversed, tended to confirm those suspicions, the truth of which she so much dreaded to learn.

As soon as Don Antonio withdrew, Monteblanco requested to speak with his daughter in his apartment. The trembling girl obeyed with a faltering step, looking like a criminal about to receive the sentence that is to seal her fate. The duenna remained somewhat surprised at this mysterious transaction, in which her family counsel and approbation had been so unceremoniously dispensed with. Her pride was mortified; in high dudgeon, she crossed herself with fervour; and then departed, muttering something between a prayer and a malediction.

A short time after, the conference broke up, and Theodora came forth, her eyes swimming in tears, and evincing the most lively emotion. She hied to her own chamber, and fastening the door, she gave a free vent to her grief.

"Alas!" she exclaimed, "the dreadful suspicion is confirmed, and the resolute manner in which my father has enforced his commands, affords me no room to hope for any alteration—any delay. Not a month—not even a week is allowed me to prepare—the measure of my misfortune is full—Lost! lost!—Oh! Lope! Lope!——"

She could proceed no further; the tumult of sorrow impeded her utterance, and she gave loose to her feelings in sighs and tears.

Presently, however, a comforter came to proffer advice and assistance—in the shape of the duenna. As we have already seen, she was ruffled by Don Manuel's want of confidence, and proper regard for her judgment; and she had resolved to tender her assistance to another quarter. It is to be observed the duenna was of a most obliging disposition. She bestowed her good advice most liberally, and she had an inexhaustible fund of pious exclamations and admonitions at the service of her friends. She could not forego the idea of being serviceable, and therefore very properly desired to be consulted on all occasions. Yet with all these amiable qualities, the duenna, in the opinion of most people, would be entitled to no better appellation for her pains than that of a busy body.

"Nina,[21] how's this?" she cried—"What mean these tears?—Aye! aye! I see that your father has been guilty of some preposterous and tyrannical measure; I suspected as much from his carefulness in keeping the secret from me.—God bless the man!—what is the matter with him?—he will never be advised, and really I cannot imagine why I remain in his house. Well, child, unfold your sorrows and grievances to your kindest friend; you know nothing delights me so much as consoling the afflicted, and offering service to the unprotected."

"Yes, good Martha," replied the sorrowing girl; "I am fully sensible of your goodness, and I do trust you will not deny me your compassion. Alas! without your valuable advice and assistance, I shall never surmount the difficulties with which I am surrounded. I must see him—I must see Don Lope this very night!"

She then explained to Martha the nature of her distress, and the duenna, glad to find an opportunity of being serviceable, readily promised her co-operation in the accomplishment of her charge's wishes.



CHAPTER IX.

Ye fair! Be greatly cautious of your sliding hearts! Dare not the infectious sigh; nor in the bower Where woodbines flaunt, and roses shed a couch, While evening draws her crimson curtain round, Trust your soft minutes with betraying man.

Thomson.

In the most retired part of Monteblanco's garden, reclining on a rustic seat, under the fragrant canopy of the myrtle and arbutus, sat a female form enveloped in a loosely flowing dress of virgin whiteness. The air was cool and serene, and except the rustling of the surrounding foliage, when agitated by the breeze, or the soft plaintive voice of the nightingale, no obtrusive sound disturbed the solemn silence. The blue vault of heaven, glittering with countless stars, the rich perfume flung around by the orange flower and jasmine, and a stilly languor that pervaded the spot, all disposed the mind to gentle and loving thoughts.

Theodora, however, sat absorbed in silent sorrow and abstraction: her long clustering tresses fell in luxuriance over her white and polished neck, almost concealing in their profusion the traits of a countenance overcast with grief and despondency.

But a figure appears on the garden wall, and the sound as of some one falling is heard on the soft turf. Theodora starts, yet a sudden recollection seems to check her momentary fear. The nocturnal visitor was Gomez Arias, who had received a hasty summons from Theodora, and surmising that some unpleasant intelligence awaited him, he hurried in breathless expectation to the place of appointment.

What was his amazement, upon his arrival!—He beheld his Theodora, not in the joyful eagerness of affection springing forward to meet his embrace, but silent and dejected. Her intelligent countenance no longer beamed with that charming smile which his appearance never failed to create. Motionless and unmoved she appeared, amongst the flowery shrubs and verdant foliage of the garden, like some statue of chaste and classical beauty, placed to embellish and diversify the sylvan spot.

Gomez Arias is before her, and yet she seems hardly conscious of his presence. He gazes on her with surprise, and then gently whispers her dear name. The well known voice recalls her scattered ideas, and its magic sound awakens her benumbed sensations to fresh warmth and life. She raised her head, threw aside the rich clusters of her hair, and a stream of moonlight falling on her countenance revealed to Gomez Arias a picture of sorrowing love.

Her eye was swollen with grief, and the big tears in quick succession chased each other down her pallid cheek.

Don Lope approached her tenderly, and folding her in his arms, endeavoured to calm her emotion, by the most soothing and endearing expressions.

"Theodora, what means this sorrow? Whatever be the misfortune which threatens us, do not vainly yield yourself a prey to terror, before you know the means I may have of averting it." Then, as if struck by a passing thought, he added—"You surely cannot entertain a distant doubt of the singleness—the devotedness of my affection?"

"Doubt of your affection! Oh, heavens! do not even mention the appalling word; there is something more terrible than death in the very idea. No, no," she continued, with vivid earnestness; "I do not; I cannot; I will not doubt of your affection. If ever such agonizing——"

She could not proceed, for her imagination was so powerfully acted upon, even with the remote image of such a misfortune, that she was obliged to remain some time silent before she could control her emotions.

"No," she resumed; "I cannot doubt your affection. But there is another calamity in store for me that will assuredly render wretched the rest of my existence."

She again stopped, and her tears flowed more abundantly than ever.

Gomez Arias felt relieved from a heavy foreboding; for the idea that his engagement with Leonor de Aguilar had come to the knowledge of Theodora, had at first filled his mind with apprehensions. He was accordingly more at ease, feeling an inward conviction that however distressing the dreaded intelligence might prove, he should still find resources within himself to avert its dangers.

"Speak, my Theodora; unfold the cause of your extraordinary sorrow, and do not weep and tremble thus."

"Oh, Lope!" she despondingly cried, "I must renounce you for ever."

"For heaven's sake, calm this agitation, Theodora, and let me know the worst. But yesterday you were as happy as a heart teeming with genuine affection, and blessed with a most unbounded return, can make a mortal, and now——"

"He is come," she fearfully interrupted him; "my destined husband is come."

Gomez Arias appeared staggered at this unexpected information, but immediately recovering himself in apparent calmness, demanded the name of his rival. "Who is it," he cried, "that boldly claims the hand of my Theodora?—No doubt some noble and distinguished cavalier."

"Alas! your supposition is but too just," replied the weeping girl; "and it is that circumstance which adds to the poignancy of my grief: were he a less estimable character, were he divested of those amiable qualities that render man dear to the eyes of woman, my reasons for refusing his addresses would be unanswerable. In that case, if I were made a victim to parental authority, some consolation might be found in the conviction that the inextinguishable hatred which I bore him was grounded on justice. But the man that seeks an alliance with our house is one whose choice would confer the greatest honor on the most exalted of the land. Brave, generous, of noble birth, and alike distinguished for the superiority of his mind and person, he is in the highest favor with the queen, who has intrusted him with the command of one of the divisions which are now marching against the rebel Moors."

Theodora made these observations in the perfect simplicity of her heart, but she unconsciously excited an idea of the most galling nature in the mind of her lover. Not that he felt the pangs of jealousy, for he was too confident both in his own merit, and the unparalleled affection of his beloved; but yet he was inwardly mortified at the encomiums bestowed on another, inasmuch as they gave rise to a comparison which he could not easily brook. He, therefore, with some asperity of tone, inquired the name of this accomplished knight; and Theodora, who perceived the inward workings of his soul, with a faultering voice pronounced the name of Don Antonio de Leyva. The sound operated like an electric shock on the mind of Gomez Arias, and despite of his habitual self-command, signs of uncommon perturbation were discernible in his countenance.

"What!" he cried, "Don Antonio de Leyva,—that presumptuous, that detested youth!"

Here he checked his emotion; pride resumed the mastery over his irritated feelings, and with a forced gaiety of manner, he continued,—

"Certainly Don Antonio is a gallant cavalier, and well calculated to captivate a woman's affections."

He stopped; for his surprise had been too abrupt, and his manner too ill disguised to continue long in this constrained suppression of his real feelings. Gomez Arias hated Don Antonio on no other plea, than the fame he was daily acquiring for his valour and brilliant qualities. Besides, he could not forget his adventure in the tournament, when Don Antonio crossed him in his career, and well nigh endangered the reputation he had that day acquired. He looked on him, therefore, as a dangerous rival, and felt chagrined at the command with which the queen had invested him, as it would afford him opportunities of grounding his claims to her royal favor on the firmest foundation.

Theodora was far from suspecting the cause of her lover's agitation. She naturally attributed to a feeling of jealousy, what was in fact the effect of restless emulation. A long pause ensued, during which the state of Theodora became more distressing, as she perceived her lover's countenance gradually assuming an unusual expression of sternness. Various passions seemed to be contending for mastery in his bosom, but the feeling of wounded pride soon appeared to predominate. His eyes glistened with indignant fire, his lip curled with a bitter smile, and the flush of anger mantled on his brow.

"Theodora!" he said, fixing earnestly his eyes on the trembling girl; "Theodora, you have deceived me!"

"Deceive you, Gomez Arias!" She looked petrified at the bare supposition. "Deceived you! And can you for a moment harbour such a cruel, such a degrading suspicion? Oh! Lope, is it possible you can think thus basely of your Theodora?"

"Why was not I made acquainted with this engagement before?"

"I was ignorant of it myself; the marriage had been settled between my father and Don Antonio, without consulting my inclination. Alas! the first intelligence I received, was to bid me prepare for the ceremony, which is to take place immediately.—My dearest Lope," she added with tenderness; "Oh! never again harrow up my feelings, with doubts unworthy of our mutual passion."

She clung to Don Lope's neck, and pressing him with the earnestness of unbounded confidence and love—"Never," she continued, "had Theodora a single thought concealed from you; you, the absolute master of my heart, and the most secret wishes of my soul."

Then in a more composed manner, she proceeded; "It was but this morning that Don Antonio arrived, when my father immediately proceeded to announce the purport of his visit. My amazement at first knew no bounds; I remonstrated on the abruptness of the proposal, and endeavoured, by gentle expostulation, to ward off the threatening blow. But my entreaties, and my tears were in vain. My father, strenuously bent on the accomplishment of his wishes, left me the only option of yielding implicit obedience to his mandates, or passing the rest of my existence in the solitary gloom of a convent. My choice is made; I lose you, Lope;"—and here her anguish almost overpowered her utterance; "I lose you for ever, but your dear image shall be constantly before me in those dark abodes of penitence and woe. Thither must I go, and leave all these dear scenes, and the dearer sight of you, consigned to unrelenting misery. Not humbly, alas! to pray; not to abjure the world; for ah! I cannot abjure that world which contains the fondest object that links me to life. I go not in the humble mood of a repentant sinner, to weep over a guilty life, but in the desponding resolution of a fond woman, eager to keep her faith unbroken to him of her heart's first and only attachment. For you, oh Lope, my tears will flow; you alone will be the theme of my constant meditations—my fervent prayers. In my hopeless solitude, I may perhaps feel one glimpse of consolation;—the idea that you may be happy, and that even in the glittering scenes of ambition, you will sometimes revert to the cheerless abode of Theodora. This will afford me some solace in my affliction. And when the hand of death releases me from my odious chains, your tears will tenderly fall on the grave of her, whose greatest crime was that of loving you too well."

"Theodora!" exclaimed Gomez Arias, moved by the picture she had drawn; "and is this then the only remedy you can devise?"

"What!" cried she eagerly, "is there any other to be found?"

She paused, and gazed on Gomez Arias, with anxious expectation, breathless with hope.

Don Lope, after a momentary lapse, with a chilling coldness, observed—"You do not love me, Theodora!"

"Oh Heavens!" she cried in the hurried accents of terror—"Never, Lope, never utter those killing words;—what do you require of me?—Speak, Gomez Arias, speak: I will do all, to convince you of the sincerity of my affection, and the cruel injustice of your words."

"You must fly then from the abode of parental oppression," calmly replied Don Lope; "and in your lover you shall find that tenderness, which a father denies; nay, start not, these words may perhaps alarm you, yet consider it is our only resource, and that imperious necessity is a law to which we must all submit. In a short time you shall be mine in the face of heaven, and now, you must resolve to follow me."

Theodora started at the proposition. She fixed her eyes on Gomez Arias, and with a deep but tranquil anguish exclaimed—"Alas, Don Lope! Is this the remedy you propose? Can you indeed tempt me to abandon my father in his declining years, to regret and shame?"

"You had already determined to abandon him," observed Gomez Arias.

"No, Lope," she replied; "by that step, I should only disappoint him in his expectations—not incur his merited hatred and malediction;—his grief would be tempered by resignation, not corroded with the sting of shame." "Don Lope," she then continued with dignity, "command my life; but oh! never, never require of me the commission of a crime, as the proof of my love."

"Stay, Theodora," interrupted Gomez Arias, with a composure that ill agreed with the terrific cloud gathering on his brow; "stay, you are right, and I must retract my words: the offer was dictated in the transports of sincere and ardent love, and as the only means left us in the hour of danger. But I perceive that I have mistaken your sentiments; such actions were only made for souls capable of feeling and appreciating the extent of a true passion; not for cold and timorous beings like yourself. I flattered my fond pride, that in you I had met with a miracle of deep and all-absorbing affection, but I am deceived, and sorely shall I repent my delusion; I now see you in your true colours; you are like the rest of your feeble sex, pleased with the gratification of their vanity, but incapable of a bold and generous resolution in favor of the man they pretend to love. I will not upbraid you; but from this moment cast you from me as a piece of inanimate clay, a painted thing, alike incapable of estimating and sharing my regard."

Saying this he rudely disengaged himself from her arms, whilst the unfortunate Theodora, affrighted at the violence of his manner, fixed on him a wild and vacant stare, the intensity of her grief depriving her of the power of reflection. But when she saw her lover actually receding from the place, her mind started from its abstraction, and her thoughts were fixed upon the dreadful desertion that now threatened her. She gave a frantic shriek, and fell lifeless on the ground.

Alarmed at the effect produced by his passionate and cruel proceeding, Gomez Arias hurried back to the spot, and raising the lovely victim from the ground, gazed on her with all the anxiety of returning affection. Theodora was in his arms, but, alas! her beautiful eyes were closed, her cheek was colourless, and a cold suffusion bathed her stiffened limbs. The vital spark had apparently deserted its frail tenement, for no sign of conscious life was there. Don Lope's angry feelings had given way to his fears for her safety, and as he wiped the cold dew from her face, he perceived blood trickling slowly down her marble brow. In the violence of her fall upon the gravelled walk, a flint had wounded her forehead, and the crimson drops that issued from it contrasted mournfully with the frozen paleness of her countenance.

Gomez Arias was moved as he gazed intensely on the angelic creature now before him. This was no artful fiction, no solemn mockery of woe: a few words had worked that dreadful revolution in her mind. Perhaps there is at times an indescribable cruelty in love that prompts a man, in a certain degree, to enjoy the misery which is wrought by an excess of affection towards him, and triumph now mingled with compassion in the abandoned lover's heart. He was, however, soon called to more generous sentiments. Anxiety and regret took place of vanity, while his passion for Theodora acquired new intensity as he scanned her beauteous figure and contemplated the distress he had occasioned. With the most endearing efforts he endeavoured to reanimate the lifeless form of Theodora. He ardently pressed the yielding burthen to his heart, placed his glowing cheek by the cold one of his mistress, fervently kissed the crimson stain upon her forehead, and then bound it with a scarf.

Theodora, however, for some time gave no sign of life. Don Lope called her by the most tender names, sprinkled her face with the water of a neighbouring fountain, and exhausted himself in efforts to revive her. At last she gently opened her eyes, a scarce perceptible motion shook her frame, and shortly after she raised her white fingers to her forehead, as if conscious of sensation. She heaved a deep sigh, and Gomez Arias watching with anxious gaze the progress of her reviving senses, strove with soothing fondness to hasten their return. Her eyes gently opened, and a sad smile played upon her lip, as she acknowledged the tender solicitude of her lover, unable as yet to express herself by words.

"Theodora, my dearest, don't you know me?"

Her abstracted senses awoke as if from a horrid dream, and with fearful and convulsive clasp she hung to Don Lope's neck.

"He is not gone—no, no, I have him here—" The rest of her sentence was lost in a hysteric laugh.

"No, my love," tenderly said Gomez Arias, "I am not gone, nor ever will. I am a barbarian to treat you thus. I do not merit such excellence as thine, and, I crave thy forgiveness for the misery I have inflicted."

Theodora, now perfectly restored, saw the stain of blood on her lover's lip, then she felt the bandage on her forehead, and when Gomez Arias explained the nature of her wound, the fond girl rejoiced at a cause that had called forth her lover's anxiety and caresses.

They remained in profound silence, which they were both afraid to break, for they trembled to renew a subject which had produced such melancholy effects.

But time was swiftly flying, and Gomez Arias again urged the necessity of adopting some resolution.

"Theodora," he said, "the night is wearing fast away, her friendly shade will but for a short time longer favor us, and the morning must, alas! throw still darker shadows over our brightest hopes."

Theodora sighed deeply, but was unable to reply.

"What is to be done?" demanded Don Lope. "Is it your wish that we should part for ever?"

"Part for ever!" cried Theodora; "Oh Heavens! the idea is more than I can endure."

"There is no other alternative left us," said Gomez Arias, "unless you feel yourself courageous enough to—" and here he cast an inquiring glance, and waited her reply; for though the purport of his meaning was obvious, he felt almost afraid to convey it by language.

Theodora's distress increased, and her fond arms that had till now encircled her lover's neck, loosened their hold, whilst her head drooped despondingly upon her bosom.

After a short pause—"My love," continued Gomez Arias, "you must decide, and instantly, we have but a short time more to remain."

"Don Lope," exclaimed the afflicted girl, with impassioned eagerness, "pity! oh pity my horrible situation, and do not tempt me with a crime, to which my own fond woman's heart urges me but too strongly. No, do not exert that uncontrollable power which you possess over my very soul, to sink me deeper into the abyss of misery, that must embitter my future existence. Do not force me to destroy the tranquillity and comfort of a venerable parent—of that parent, whose greatest fault is his excessive fondness and solicitude for his child. Though by his last determination he has completed my misery, he is nevertheless more deserving of pity than reproach. Alas! while he destroys my felicity and repose, he cherishes the idea, that he is laying the foundation of the future happiness of his child."

"Yes!" cried Gomez Arias, smiling bitterly, "by forcing her to waste her life in a cloister."

"No," exclaimed Theodora, "he does not suppose me capable of such a terrible resolution; he is ignorant that my affections are irretrievably bestowed on another, fondly imagining that I shall not long be insensible to the merits of the husband he has chosen."

She fell on the ground, and clasping the knees of her lover, proceeded with redoubled emotion—"Oh, Lope, I know but too well my own weakness! Take, therefore, compassion on my distress, urge me no further, and do not avail yourself of the tenderness and self-devotion of one who adores you, to render her a cruel and delinquent daughter."

Gomez Arias was powerfully struck with the earnestness of her manner; he never imagined he should meet with such opposition from a heart so enthusiastically devoted. He could not but admire the generosity and nobleness of feeling which thus voluntarily condemned itself to a life of solitude and despair, rather than deviate in the smallest degree from moral rectitude. Yet he was inwardly mortified at her superiority, and would fain have persuaded himself that her scruples proceeded rather from a deficiency of passion than from a sense of honor and filial duty. He looked on her with a mixture of compassion and disappointment as he endeavoured to raise her from the ground.

"No, never," she cried, "never will I rise till you grant my request."

"Rise, rise, Theodora," said he gloomily, "and listen to me for the last time.—Since it is your desire, I will no longer, press a sacrifice I was naturally bound to expect from your repeated, and apparently sincere, protestations of regard. Since you will have it so, I must yield. I will begone immediately; but if you are to be for ever lost to me, think not I will tamely submit to my wrongs. I will seek out the cause of our misfortunes, and if he is the valiant knight report speaks him, I shall then find the only solace left me in my desolation, that of taking ample vengeance or falling nobly by his weapon. And now," he added after a short pause, "farewell Theodora! Farewell, for we part for ever!"

"No, you cannot," franticly cried Theodora, "you must not leave me thus. Oh Lope! you were always tender, and generous, and kind.—Never did you in the slightest manner wound my heart till this dreadful night."

"True," replied Don Lope, "and never till the present moment could I doubt your love."

"Oh Lope! Lope! and is it to your Theodora you speak thus! In pity recall those dreadful words."

"Silly girl," vehemently exclaimed Gomez Arias, "what do you require of me? Or what is it that you wish? You have chosen your path, let me now take mine, unless you force me in my anguish to curse the hour when I first beheld you."

"Curse the day you saw me!" As she uttered this exclamation an involuntary chill crept over her, which seemed to have frozen the springs of her heart.

"Theodora," he now said in a tone of sad reproach, "dry your tears—you will soon have bitter occasion for them. May you enjoy that repose which you have for ever destroyed in my heart—Farewell! Farewell!"

As he said this he gently strove to disengage himself from her hold. The struggle was too powerful for her nature, and like the poor bird when under the magic influence of the serpent, yields itself to the destructive charm, Theodora, unable any longer to combat with her overpowering feelings, threw herself into her lover's arms, and exclaimed passionately upon his bosom—"No, no, dear Lope, we will not part. Let it be as you will." She paused, and then added with solemnity—"It is decreed that I must be wretched, but you at least shall never have reason to reproach me."

Gomez Arias clasped her fondly to his breast, and in the transports of his joy, endeavoured to draw a glowing picture of their future happiness.

"My dearest Theodora, hush your apprehensions and unreasonable fears. At the first opportunity we marry. Your father will at last relent, and even if he should prove deaf to the appeal of nature, the love and gratitude of Gomez Arias will supply the loss."

"Oh that is my only consolation," she interrupted with eagerness. "Love me, Lope, love me even as I love you. No, no, that is not possible. But, oh, if thy love should ever decrease—deceive me! in pity deceive me! Do not let me suspect the dreadful truth—No, let death first conceal from me so terrible a secret."

Gomez Arias again tenderly essayed to calm her agitation, and then urged the necessity of quitting the place with the utmost expedition. She made no longer any resistance, for she had advanced too far now to recede, and leaning on her lover she was almost carried along the garden.

Gomez Arias quickly made a signal, and a ladder of ropes was thrown from the other side. At the sight Theodora could scarcely restrain the agony of her feelings. A crowd of thoughts distracted her mind—a load of anguish was upon her breast, and had it not been for the support of her lover, she would have fallen. Gomez Arias bore the trembling girl across the wall, but as she stood for an instant on the summit, she cast a long melancholy look on the home of her innocence and childhood—the now deserted abode, of a venerable parent, and with a heart throbbing with anguish, she intrusted herself to the protection of her lover.



CHAPTER X.

Where is she? I wish to see my daughter, shew her me;

* * * *

You have betrayed me; y' have let loose The jewel of my life: Go, bring her me, And set her here before me.—

Beaumont and Fletcher.

The next day arrived—a day of sorrow for the unfortunate Monteblanco. Seated on a ponderous chair of rude workmanship, the old caballero waited for the appearance of his darling daughter, to pay her morning devoirs, and receive his blessing. He waited patiently for some time, but his mind becoming fraught with more than usual anxiety, he called lustily to the duenna,—he called again, and again, but to no purpose. The pious old dame was deeply engaged in her orisons, and her mind occupied with other affairs than appertain to this sinful world. She appeared at last, her eyes half closed, her lips moving fast in the fervour of her devotions, and her long skinny fingers employed in a manner equally devout, as with the most exemplary industry, and solemn sedateness, she let fall in measured intervals, one by one, the large black counters of her rosary.

"The Lord be with you!" ejaculated piously the duenna.

"Save you, good Martha," responded Don Manuel.

"And may the blessed Virgin forgive you Senor, for thus disturbing an humble sinner at her prayers."

"Amen!" answered Don Manuel; "and now Martha tell me where is my daughter."

"Ave Maria!" continued the duenna, as another counter fell.

Monteblanco, who expected quite a different answer, was however kind enough to give the customary response to the salutation.

"Santa Maria!" muttered he with a movement of impatience, raising nevertheless his eyes to heaven. But it so happened that the devotion of the old cavalier was obliged to give way to his paternal solicitude.

"Martha," he therefore cried, "put aside your beads, and tell me, in goodness tell me, if my child is indisposed."

"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the duenna, "what brings that into your head, Don Manuel?"

"If not," demanded the father, "how does it happen she has not yet appeared?—Where is she?"

"In bed, God help her," replied Martha, "for she very naturally concluded, that a lady who had spent the night in an amorous colloquy, could not be expected to rise over early the next morning."

"In bed!" echoed Monteblanco, "in bed! shame, why it is past seven," he added, somewhat ruffled at the idea. "What! has she passed an indifferent night?"

"Not that I know of, unless indeed that she may have been a little too zealous in her midnight devotions: the grace of the Lord be upon her for a sweet, innocent child. Bless her soul, she could not be otherwise after the holy counsel which I, a miserable sinner, have endeavoured to instill into her tender mind."

"Martha, Martha," seriously observed Don Manuel, "I do not entirely approve of this excess of devotion."

"Ah!" ejaculated the duenna. "That is exactly what I say to her, but she is very scrupulous in her religious exercises."

"Well Martha, you must moderate her zeal, and make her understand that the views of heaven will be much better realized, by yielding implicit obedience to the dictates of a father; and now," he added in a more familiar tone, "go, and bid her come, for I expect Don Antonio de Leyva every minute."

The duenna went out muttering a Gloria Patri, which was exactly finished by the time she got at the other side of the door. She then hastened to the chamber of her charge, by no means pleased with a somnolency that exposed her to any rebuke, however trifling.

"Oh you sluggish girl," she began. "Dios me perdone,[22] what means this? Are you not ashamed to be in bed at this time in the morning, and allow a christian matron like me to be disturbed at her prayers on your account? This comes of your nocturnal meetings; I must put a stop to them; they may be very refreshing to the heart, but cannot contribute to the health, nor to the good keeping of the soul; up, up perezosa,[23] and never more expose a kind duenna to your father's rebukes; up, immediately, Don Manuel is waiting." Receiving no answer, she took it for granted, being not a little deaf, that Theodora was replying with the various excuses which were naturally to be expected, under similar circumstances. She continued, therefore, without troubling herself as to their import. "Nay, nay, attempt not to exculpate yourself, for it is very wrong to expose me thus, because I am so amiably inclined as to overlook your frailties with christian charity. Holy Virgin! I shudder when I think to what perilous compromises my unsullied reputation is daily exposed by the tenderness of my disposition. What is it you say?—Eh?—What?—you are silent then, well child, after all that is the wisest thing you can do; it pleaseth me to see you thus humble, for humility, like charity, covereth a multitude of sins." The good duenna proceeded in this strain for some time, without receiving any check to her eloquence, till at length, surprised at such an excess of contrition, she grew impatient, flung the windows wide open, pulled the bed hangings aside, when to her utter consternation she found the object of her intended visitation vanished. The surprise of the duenna was strongly pictured on her shrivelled visage, as the dismal truth obtruded itself upon her mind. The wrath of Monteblanco, and the blot upon her own dear reputation, as the natural consequences of this disaster, took possession of her mind. She first uttered something between a whine and a discordant cry, meaning thereby to indicate at once her emotions of anger and sorrow. Then she began busily to invoke the protection of all the saints in the calendar. But the saints, though very holy personages in their way, are by no means the proper persons to consult respecting the discovery of stray damsels. She appeared to place more confidence in her own exertions than in their assistance. She commenced a scrupulous search in every part of the chamber, under and round about the bed, and waddling out of the apartment, she left no corner in the house unsearched.

Astonished at the duenna's activity, and puzzled to discover the cause, the servants flocked around her, but to all their inquiries she gave no other answer but interjections and exclamations, and such harsh guttural sounds, that they began to suspect that the good dame had fairly lost her wits.

The garden was now explored, but alas! with no better success, and the perturbation of poor Martha's mind baffled all description.

It was some time before she could determine what course to pursue, balancing in her mind whether it would be more prudent to avoid the impending storm by flight, or boldly and confidently to encounter her master's ire. Flight certainly is the method preferred on similar occasions; but then by adopting it she would tacitly confess herself guilty, and her tender reputation would be sullied with an indelible stain; by bravely encountering, on the other hand, the irritated father, she could stoutly deny all cognizance of the affair, and boldly call on all the saints of Heaven to assert her innocence, witnesses to whose testimony Martha always confidently appealed, being satisfied they would have no inclination to contradict her.

Acting upon this idea, she left the garden, instilling into her parchment features all the surprise and grief that she could muster up at so short a notice.

In the meantime Monteblanco, heartily tired of sending message after message, resolved to seek himself the cause of the duenna's protracted absence.

"Martha—Martha," he cried, as soon as he saw her—"In the name of the devil, what means this?"

"Hush, Don Manuel!" replied the duenna, with great solemnity of manner—"Hush, venerated Senor; for sure enough the evil one has been at work."

"What!" exclaimed the astonished Don Manuel, "explain yourself, and quickly."

"Holy Virgin!" proceeded the dame, "that such a thing should happen in my time!"

"In the name of God—Martha," cried again the father, in agony, "tell me what misfortune has happened."

"Oh!" whined the duenna, struggling hard to force from her old eyes a couple of rebellious tears, "ask me not, for shame and sorrow will choke my utterance."

"May all the curses of Heaven choke you! Woman, what have you done with my daughter? Speak—speak, or by Santiago de Compostela, I will so belabour thy shrivelled form, as to reduce it to atoms in less time than you can say your credo."

The duenna had never before seen her master in so terrible a passion, and she almost repented not having followed her first impulse to fly. She inwardly cursed that tenderness for her reputation, which had brought the more substantial part of her person into the present quandary. A vigorous defence was the only alternative now left her.

"What have I done with your daughter!" she exclaimed, with a look which she meant to be expressive of indignant surprise.—"May the Lord help you!—what should I have done with your daughter?"

"Where is she then?"

A pause ensued.

"Where is she?" demanded again the agitated father, with redoubled emotion.

"Alas! I know not—she is gone to all appearance—May the light of Heaven, and her guardian angel conduct her steps!"

"Gone!—my Theodora gone!" cried Don Manuel in the height of affliction.

"I conclude that to be the case," added the duenna, with assurance, "for she is nowhere to be found."

The desolate father appeared thunderstruck at this intelligence. He smote his venerable forehead, and plucked his grey beard in the anguish of despair. Then he vented the most bitter reproaches against the ingratitude of his daughter, and cursed the day that gave her birth.

Whilst he was thus vainly indulging in the paroxysm of grief, the duenna kept crossing herself with such active fervour, that the repeated and rapid motion of her hand at last caught the attention of the sorrowing and abstracted father.

"Oh, thou vile hypocrite!" he exclaimed, darting a furious look—"Thou beldame!—Is this the way thou hast answered the confidence reposed in thee?—I have nurtured a serpent in my house—I have set the ravenous wolf to guard the lamb! Accursed beldame! Thou art an accomplice in my daughter's flight."

"Holy Virgin of the Conception!" ejaculated the offended Martha, "that such foul aspersions should be thrown on my character, after sixty years of rigid penitence! May the Lord forgive you, Senor, as I do"—and she crossed herself with redoubled zeal.

"Forgive me, thou imp of the devil!" thundered Don Manuel, astonished at her assurance.—"Forgive me!"

"I an imp of the devil!—I, who had an aunt who died in odour of sanctity, in the convent of Santa Clara—I, who am second cousin to Fray Domingo, one of the most religious as well as most celebrated preachers of the day!"

"May the curse of Heaven fall on thee, and him, and all thy race."

"Do not swear," interrupted Martha; "Oh! do not swear—you fright me—I shall faint."

"Avaunt, thou detested hag!" continued Don Manuel.

"San Pedro y san Pablo!" cried the duenna.

"Thou poisonous crocodile!" replied Don Manuel.

"San Jose bendito!" responded the duenna.

"Abominable fiend!" returned Don Manuel.

"Animas benditas!" answered the duenna.

This extraordinary litany, however, was at length cut short by the arrival of Don Antonio de Leyva. He was not a little surprised at the scene which presented itself, and was for some time unable to obtain an explanation. When he at length arrived at a knowledge of the affair, his astonishment and sorrow were exhibited in the most lively manner.

"Alas!" he cried, "I could not but suspect from my first interview with Theodora, that her affections were fixed on another object."

"Oh, no, no," eagerly replied Don Manuel—"you are far from the mark—she cannot love any one—how could she form an attachment without my knowledge?"

"Then," said Don Antonio, sighing, "it was to avoid my addresses that she has sought a refuge in flight."

"Jesus Maria!" interposed the duenna—"Do not say so, Don Antonio—how could she possibly object to so accomplished a cavalier?"

"Good dame," answered he, "it is not difficult to account for her dislike; and I must acknowledge with painful sensations, that I am chiefly to blame for this unfortunate occurrence."

"No, no," cried Monteblanco, pointing to Martha; "the person chiefly to blame in this affair, is that detestable hag.—See how she crosses herself, and rolls her eyes to impose upon our credulity; but it is all over—I have been too long the dupe of her affected piety, and seeming austerity of manners; my eyes are at length open to conviction, and I see the despicable creature in her true colours."

"What reason," observed de Leyva, "can you assign for Theodora's strange resolution, unless it be dislike to me, or love for another."

"Alas! I know not what to think," answered Don Manuel; "my mind is bewildered, and all my conjectures may prove wrong. Perhaps some hastiness in my way of proceeding may have influenced her determination. But I do not despair; she may yet be brought to a sense of her duty; if not," he added despondingly, "the happiness of my declining age is blasted, and heartily shall I wish to be numbered with the dead."

Monteblanco by these means sought a medium between accusing his daughter of downright criminality, and confessing to young de Leyva that his suspicions concerning Theodora's aversion to the intended wedding were not entirely groundless.

He was unwilling also to relinquish the thought of having so excellent a son-in-law, and he believed Don Antonio to be possessed of all those qualities which are capable of enslaving the affections of women, even the most fastidious. He, therefore, prudently resolved, in case of his child's return, to allow her due time to consider the proposal, which he had been so anxious to carry by parental authority, hoping that she would at last be brought to acquiesce in his wishes, by the constant assiduity and numberless accomplishments of her suitor.

Under this impression, he readily accepted the services proffered by Don Antonio, for the recovery of Theodora, and for speedily concerting the means.

"Don Manuel," exclaimed the gallant de Leyva, "spite of your kind and courteous asseverations, I cannot but consider myself the cause of your daughter's leaving her home. This reflection and that tender sentiment which Theodora was as capable of inspiring as I am susceptible of feeling, makes me perhaps a principal in this melancholy event. It is with heartfelt sincerity, therefore, that I offer my assistance. Let us first endeavour to restore the lovely fugitive to her deserted home, and then let not the shadow of compulsion actuate her future determination."

"I shall be happy," replied Don Manuel, "to profit by advice dictated at once by affection and prudence. Theodora," he added after a short pause, "cannot have departed from this city, and we shall probably find her either in a convent, or at the abode of one of her relatives. However, to insure all precaution, I shall forthwith send despatches to Granada, and the neighbouring towns."

Saying this, Monteblanco made a movement to retire with his young friend, and casting a look of anger on the duenna, he said as he passed—"Thou mayest well tremble, miserable sinner that thou art!"

"Tremble, forsooth!" returned the stately dame, with great dignity of manner. "Innocence has no occasion to tremble; and now it only remains for me to quit a place where my virtue and honesty have so unwarrantably been called in question."

"When thou dost quit my house," said Don Manuel, "it will be to be shut up for life in a convent, there to do penance for thy sins, and to profit by the holy example of that good aunt that died in odour of sanctity."

Left to herself, Martha began seriously to reflect on the unpleasantness of her situation; the threat of a conventual seclusion sounded harshly to her ear. She fancied it would be more advantageous to society that her good offices should continue in requisition, than that they should be for ever lost by an untimely adoption of a contemplative life.

"Oh, that ungracious Gomez Arias!" she exclaimed, in her perplexity.

"What wouldst thou with Gomez Arias?" said a well known voice.

She turned, and saw before her the object of her exclamation.

"Blessed be the Virgin! It is he, sure enough. What brings you here, Sir? Where is my young lady?"

"Where is she?" inquired Gomez Arias, with feigned anxiety.

"Nay, nay, your arts are thrown away on me; I know that Theodora, poor silly thing, has eloped with you. She loves you, in very truth, she does; and when a woman really loves, it is unaccountable what a number of fooleries she will be tempted to commit."

"Well," returned Don Lope, "supposing she has intrusted herself to my protection, she only followed the dictates of pure affection; surely there could be no harm in so doing."

"Under favour, Don Lope," observed the duenna, "but there is. Not forsooth in loving you; but yet, there is a crying injustice, an unpardonable cruelty, in leaving me to suffer for it without a——"

"Reward, wouldst thou say?" interrupted Don Lope.

"Valgame San Juan! But you misapprehend me strangely. I am not mercenary; heaven knows my only concern is for my safety, threatened as I am."

"Threatened! in what possible manner?" demanded Gomez Arias.

"With nothing less than a convent."

"A convent," repeated Don Lope, smiling, "to so devout a dame, methinks, can have no terrors."

"Aye in troth, I am devout," replied the duenna, "and yet I feel nowise inclined to be immured between four walls. What merit would there be in the sacrifice of an old, poor, decrepid piece of mortality such as I. No, it is the voluntary seclusion of young, rich and beautiful virgins that delights the divinity."

"Most prudent Martha," gaily replied Gomez Arias, "I greatly admire and applaud your discretion. Never ought so worthy, so valuable a matron to be lost to the world. No, thou wert born to be the consolation of gallant knights and amorous damsels; it would be really unpardonable to permit thy seclusion, whilst thou mayest yet tend thy services to lovers. No, no, God forbid thou shouldst go to a nunnery."

"The Lord bless you, good Senor," returned Martha with humility; "but you over-rate my poor deserts."

"By my sword! that modesty becomes thee mightily. But we must lose no time. Attend vespers this afternoon, there thou shalt find my conscientious valet, who will give thee proper directions and assistance to effect thy escape, and ample means to pass the remainder of thy precious life in some distant city of Spain, free from the blessed idea of conventual retirement."

"That will I do, most generous Don Lope, and be thankful withal."

"But stay," added Gomez Arias with mock gravity; "there is one objection to this arrangement."

"Virgen de las Angustias!—What is it, Senor?" demanded the duenna, in visible alarm.

"Why!" answered Gomez Arias, "only that thou must sacrifice somewhat of that dear, unsullied reputation by following such a course."

"Alas, Senor!" exclaimed she of the nice reputation—"That is too true; willingly would I preserve it entire, but feeble mortals are not bound to do more than their strength can compass."

"True," rejoined Gomez Arias; "thine argument, most venerable Martha, is a very plausible argument, and very consoling withal."

At this moment a noise was heard. The duenna started. "It is my master, and Don Antonio," cried she. "Hence! begone, Don Lope, they must not see us together."

"Fear not, most respected dame," said Gomez Arias; "I am no college gallant, no unskilful tyro in the affairs of love; I depart but to return in due time."

"Return!" echoed Martha; "to what purpose?"

"To cover thy threadbare reputation," said he laughing; "it appears of so tender a texture, that it is likely to be torn piece-meal, if not remedied in time. Besides, I must protect my own, should it be necessary: a good pilot, even in a calm, must prepare against foul weather."

"Our Lady's blessing be upon your head!" said Martha, "for a right prudent caballero."

"Well, mind to give thy assistance at vespers."

"Ah, my good Senor; my devotion requires no stimulus."

Gomez Arias made his exit, just in time to prevent a meeting with the aforesaid gentlemen. They had been busily occupied in devising the most efficacious means to insure success in their researches. Don Manuel appeared more composed in his demeanor, for he placed much confidence in the influence and abilities of his ally. Hope, that with its cheering ray lights us even on the gloomy borders of the tomb, now in part dispelled the heavy cloud that overshadowed the deserted father's heart.

Don Antonio took an affectionate leave, and after repeating his cordial offers of assistance, departed.

Monteblanco, when left by himself, felt his wrath again revived, at the sight of the duenna; he therefore renewed his threats of a convent.

"Don Manuel!" said the duenna, with a most sanctimonious look, "I am innocent—innocent, as the child unborn: yet if it so pleaseth Heaven, that I should be immured in a cloister, the Lord's will be done; a convent has no terrors for me; alas! a poor humble sinner can desire no better abode; but think, Senor, how galling it is to be forced by compulsion to embrace a state, that ought to be embraced out of spontaneous inclination; allow me at least a few hours to arrange my worldly concerns, and I shall be ready to obey your commands."

Saying this, the female tartuffe retired to her chamber, to prepare for her secret departure.



CHAPTER XI.

Tu puoi pensar, se'l padre addolorato Riman quand'accusar sente la figlia, Si perche ode di lei quel, che pensato Mai non avrebbe, e n'ha gran maraviglia.

Ariosto.

Ben se'crudel, se tu gia non ti duoli Pensando cio ch'al mio cor s'annunziava: E se non piangi di che pianger suoli?

Dante.

Whilst the unhappy father was absorbed in his recent misfortune, and endeavouring to beguile the tedious hours, by directing researches in all quarters of the town, where there was any possibility of his daughter having taken refuge, he was surprised with a visit from Gomez Arias.

"Pardon my intrusion, Senor," he said with much courtesy; "my anxiety for the fate of an honorable gentleman, though a rival, will perhaps hold me excused in the eyes of Don Manuel de Monteblanco."

"Sir," returned Don Manuel, "your visits do much honor to my humble dwelling, and stand in no need of an apology."

After the long vocabulary of compliments had been exhausted, Gomez Arias reverted to the adventure in the Zaguan, and with apparent anxiety demanded news of Don Rodrigo.

"I have none, Senor," said Monteblanco; "and alas! I am not likely to feel much concerned for the inconvenience of another, at a time when I am myself plunged in deep affliction."

"Perhaps," resumed Gomez Arias, "it may not be altogether right in a stranger to pry into the secret motives of your sorrows; but if I can by any means in my power alleviate them, I should esteem myself particularly honored in meriting your confidence. I but now perceived signs of alarm in the countenances of your servants, apparently not without foundation, and it grieves my very soul to see so honorable a personage in distress. What has happened, noble Senor?"

"Alas! My child—my child!" cried the afflicted father.

"She is not ill?" inquired Don Lope.

"Oh! worse!—worse," replied Don Manuel with emotion.

"Ah!" exclaimed Gomez Arias, feigning surprise. "What?—no—it is not possible—and yet it may be so."

"Eh?" cried Monteblanco, in an inquiring tone of voice, and opening wide his eyes in the eagerness of anticipation.

"My valet," continued Don Lope, "brought me information that there was a rumour circulating about the town, relating to the elopement of a noble lady. As I am a perfect stranger in the place, I felt no curiosity to inquire further into the affair, but I could not then imagine that you, Sir, were the victim of this misfortune."

"Alas! Don Lope! it is but too true!"

Gomez Arias had learnt so well the part he had to perform, that he found not the slightest difficulty in going through it with the most perfect ease, and by this means he insensibly won the confidence of the deluded Don Manuel, who, like many others under similar circumstances, felt a relief in confiding his sorrows to one, who appeared to sympathise with him so sincerely.

"For surely," continued Don Lope, "some one must have been acquainted with this flight. Have you well examined your servants? Depend upon it, Senor, they are generally the instruments and abettors in the rebellion of children against their parents."

"You are right, my honored Sir," replied Don Manuel. "Servants are the sworn enemies of those who give them bread; but though I am disposed to suspect every one of my dependants of being accessary to this treason, I am yet at a loss on whom to fix my suspicions with justice. I am assured, however, that the duenna must have had an active part in conducting this abominable transaction."

"The duenna!" exclaimed Gomez Arias, darting a look full of wonder and well feigned surprise—"The duenna! By my sword, that must be our clue—I had almost forgotten that you had a duenna in your house, otherwise my astonishment would not have been so lively. Duennas are the soul of every intrigue, and you may indeed affirm, with a safe conscience, that yours has not only connived at, but even facilitated your daughter's escape."

"Of that, alas! I am but too confident," replied the father, "notwithstanding her solemn asseverations and canting hypocrisy."

"Ah! the cunning beldame," quoth Don Lope sarcastically. "She has all the arts of her kind, I perceive; but I hope, Senor Don Manuel, that you are not to be imposed upon by such shallow artifices. We must secure the duenna, and examine her well; perchance a few threats will not be altogether unavailing."

"That is precisely the method I have adopted," said Don Manuel.

"And where is the old hag, now?" inquired Don Lope.

"Packing up her trumpery, to depart for the convent."

"Pedro"—then called Don Manuel.

"Your pleasure?" demanded the valet, as he entered.

"Send Martha to me."

Pedro obeyed, but shortly after returned with a most dismal and elongated visage.

"Well, what is the old dotard staring at?" impatiently cried his master.

"Senor, Martha is flown," replied the dependant.

"Flown!" re-echoed Monteblanco, in consternation; "Flown! And how came you not to prevent her departure?"

"Save your honor," returned the terrified Pedro, "we all thought she was quietly shut up in her chamber. She has contrived to escape, the Lord only knows how—she must have vanished through the chimney, or a key hole, like a witch that she is, Jesus me valga!"

"That she is a witch I am fully aware, and you are all her familiars," cried Don Manuel with violence. "But you shall rue the moment the hag foiled your vigilance."

Gomez Arias, who had observed a perfect silence, now ventured to remark—

"We need go no further for a positive proof of the duenna's culpability, since her guilt is rendered sufficiently evident by her flight."

"Yes," observed Don Manuel, "but that circumstance affords me little consolation. The means of ascertaining the truth are now lost, by the disappearance of the principal accomplice."

The afflicted old man again gave way to his exasperated feelings; this last stroke quite overpowered him. His pride was sorely wounded, for he was one of those old Spanish cavaliers, who, when deprived of every other satisfaction, took a melancholy pleasure in inflicting his vengeance on the object of his wrath. But even this solitary consolation was now denied him, and the idea that he had been so grossly imposed upon by an old beldame, added to the galling reflections which his misfortune had inflicted.

Gomez Arias exerted his utmost endeavours to sooth his emotion, employing for this purpose all the established maxims resorted to under similar circumstances—maxims profoundly wise no doubt, but which unluckily are often lost upon their object.

"In order then," said Gomez Arias, "to unravel this mystery, it is of the first importance to set about the inquiry from the commencement, in order to discover the authors. We have now the agent of this nefarious enterprise, but we must seek for the actual culprit. There can be no doubt that when a young girl is induced to elope from her home, there is generally a lover who prompts her to so objectionable a measure. Now, Don Manuel, is there no person on whom suspicion may attach with any probability?"

Monteblanco pondered for a while, and then replied—"Really, Don Lope, if there exists such a man, I am totally unacquainted with his person."

"What, are you unable to hazard even a conjecture?"

"I am, Don Lope," sorrowfully answered the father.

"Indeed! this is surprising;—look, Senor, around the circle of your acquaintance, and perchance you may find a clue to guide your investigation."

Don Manuel mechanically looked around, and then shook his head despondingly.

"I would not willingly," continued Gomez Arias, "throw an aspersion on the reputation of any one, but what are we to surmise from the visit of Don Rodrigo de Cespedes? Certainly, there was something unaccountable in his chivalric expedition against me. Besides, why require the assistance of an aged cavalier, when he might have commanded that of more suitable agents for that description of undertaking?"

Gomez Arias met with no great difficulty in deceiving the man he had injured; for one under Don Manuel's distressing situation, is of all others the most easy to be imposed upon. His own wounded feelings, in some measure, paved the way to the deception;—as a man who has lost his purse, is apt to throw the charge on the very first individual who unfortunately happens to attract his notice.

"In addition to this," proceeded Gomez Arias, "we may remark the visible alarm which was stamped on the countenance of the young lady, when our quarrel took place—her anxiety to bring the light—the shriek she uttered on imagining that my antagonist had fallen;—these, Don Manuel, are strong indications, which may have escaped your observation in moments of anger and grief, but which to a cooler judgment amount almost to certainty. However, it is not my intention to prejudice your mind against Don Rodrigo; my only desire is to warn you."

By such subtle means, Gomez Arias confirmed Monteblanco's suspicions; for when once started, nothing tends more powerfully to strengthen them than a sort of recantation in their author. Accordingly, Don Manuel felt almost convinced of the treachery of his friend. Certainly there was ample room to doubt the justice of such an imputation, if he had chosen to reflect coolly on the subject; but in cases like the present, the best reasons are unfortunately most unceremoniously set aside.

Thus Don Manuel was at once deceiving himself, and casting a reflection on the character of a man who had not the remotest connection with the event, and whose integrity in this instance could still less be impeached than in the case of his having feloniously taken the old mule of the friar, instead of his own beautiful horse, for the purpose of gaining by the exchange.

Monteblanco, after a moment's thought, suddenly grasping the hand of Gomez Arias—"I owe you much, Don Lope," he said, "and I pray you to be convinced of the sincerity of my gratitude."

"Nay, honored Sir," replied Gomez Arias, "you labour under a delusion—you owe me nothing—at least you owe me no favor, and I solemnly disclaim any title to your acknowledgments."

Many and reciprocal were the compliments that passed from this time between the two cavaliers; they mutually offered their services to each other, and Don Lope very prudently afforded to his new friend all the instructions which might tend to render abortive the pursuit and recovery of the fugitive. Shortly after he took leave of the unfortunate cavalier, who was even troublesome in the expression of his gratitude, and whose hopes now began to assume a brighter hue.



CHAPTER XII.

The intent, and not the deed, Is in our power; and therefore, who dares greatly Does greatly.

Browne's Barbarossa.

E ben degg'io, di libertade amico, Meno la morte odiar di quella vita, Che ricever dovrei dal mio nemico.

Metastasio.

We must now recall the reader's attention to that portion of the history of the rebellious Moors, which is in some measure connected with our tale. The forty chiefs, who had been elected in the revolt of the Albaycin, succeeded, as we have already seen, in disseminating their sentiments through many towns and villages in the jurisdiction of the Alpujarras: their efforts, however, were almost invariably unsuccessful. In most of their encounters, the Moors were either entirely worsted, or compelled to seek for safety in flight; yet they persevered in their designs. Defeats and repeated crosses, instead of subduing, tended only to increase their courage, by adding to the desire of vengeance.

The rebels had already sustained some severe reverses; amongst which the most prominent was the loss of the town of Guejar, which, after a protracted and desperate resistance, had been taken by storm by the combined forces of Count de Tendilla and the famous Gonzalo de Cordova. Most of the Moors either perished in the defence, or were put to the sword by the conquerors; whilst the Castle itself was given up to the flames.

The Count de Lerin next possessed himself of the fortress and town of Andarax; and, exasperated at the resistance of the inhabitants, who continued to protract the defence, although without any chance of success, he at length blew up the Mosque, where a considerable number had fled for shelter, along with the women and children.

Thus of the three strong holds of the rebels, Lanjaron was the only one that now remained unconquered, and this indeed appeared to offer a more formidable resistance, chiefly on account of the garrison having el Negro for a leader—a man of mean origin, but extraordinary courage and resolution. These qualities, together with the services which he had already rendered to the Moorish cause in the wars of Granada, had acquired for him the confidence of his countrymen, who had accordingly intrusted him with the command of this important post. He was a man of severe habits, with a natural ferocity of character, which, although not calculated to conciliate, nevertheless succeeded in commanding the respect and obedience of his troops.

The castle of Lanjaron, situated in the vale of Lecrin, was considered a post of the utmost consequence, not only from the strength of its defences, but from the circumstance of being a place of secure retreat to the Moors of the surrounding country. At this moment the fortress was closely beleaguered by the troops under the command of the Alcayde de los Donceles and other chiefs, who deprived the rebels of the smallest communication with their friends of the mountains, and had thus reduced them to an utter state of destitution.