"And who is the fortunate bride?" demanded Theodora, not from any motive of curiosity, but merely to acquiesce in the loquacious humor of her attendant.

"The bride!" exclaimed Lisarda, "the bride! why, who should be the bride?—Have I not already told you?"

"No, indeed, you have not."

"Really," resumed Lisarda, conceitedly, "for a thoughtless silly girl, I am the most unaccountable female in Spain."

Theodora did not attempt to contradict her, as she was certainly a most unaccountable girl for a woman of forty.

"Well," proceeded Lisarda, "before it again slips from my memory, I must acquaint you that the bride is no other than our beloved and most noble mistress, the lady Dona Leonor."

"She well deserves a gentle bridegroom," observed Theodora, with affability.

"She does in troth," replied Lisarda; "and how should she not, being as she is? We have had no lack of suitors—aye, and the noblest. Good Heavens! what ado there has been about it—gallants we have had, clustering about us like bees when they flock around their queen. The bridegroom is indeed a most deserving and accomplished cavalier; and so he should, to be the favored choice of Dona Leonor. However, he is not the one I patronized, and who I hoped at one time would marry my lady—he, alas! was prevented from proceeding in so desirable an engagement, not from any fault of his or mine either, but from an unexpected event that presented the most insurmountable impediment to the marriage."

"And that was—?" inquired Theodora.

"Death!" replied Lisarda: "it being rumoured and readily believed, that the unfortunate caballero was murdered by those blood-thirsty Moors of the Alpujarras; and indeed his long disappearance from Granada makes the unwelcome intelligence to rest on no shallow foundation."

Theodora felt an involuntary chill at this part of her attendant's narration; for the similarity of fate between Leonor's lover and her own could not but be productive of a most harrowing sensation. Lisarda, however, continued, unconscious of the pang she had inflicted.

"And it was a marvellous pity," said she, "for a more gallant and generous cavalier was not easily to be met with in all Spain. So gentle, so brave, so rich, and so generous withal;—now, never did he appear before me, but he needs must force some present or other upon me; and, indeed, spite of my shyness, I found the greatest difficulty in resisting the acceptance of gifts which were offered in so delicate a manner: peace be to his soul! it was always a ring, a gem, a pair of pendants, or——"

"And what is the name of the present bridegroom?" interrupted Theodora.

"Certainly he is a sweet gallant too, and in great estimation at court——"

"And his name is—?" inquired Theodora.

"Though, to say the truth, there are many others equally meritorious. It is not the Maestre de Calatrava; oh, no; his attractions are rather too mature to suit the taste of Dona Leonor."

"Who is he?" again demanded Theodora "A most handsome man, certainly; now—but do not suppose it is Don Felix de Almagro, or young Garcilaso, or Don Juan de—— No,——".

"Well, but, good Lisarda, what is his name?"

"Oh, he bears a most glorious name; but now I think on't, what a thoughtless, silly girl I am; surely I was to bring you a beautiful dress, that my lady ordered for you: sweet lady, you must forgive me; I will run forthwith and rectify my fault."

Then, without waiting for a reply, she flew out of the room. Theodora felt a strange sensation at the intelligence she had just received. A wedding was shortly to be solemnized, at which her presence would naturally be required, and the idea of witnessing a ceremony which would bring to her mind a train of painful associations, failed not to increase her agitation. Then she was lost in conjectures respecting the bridegroom, and she felt impressed with a belief that he could be no other than Don Antonio de Leyva. She felt a dread at the prospect of appearing before him, whom her venerable parent had chosen for her partner in life.

Theodora strove to drive away such unpleasant images, and to divert her attention she hurried to the garden. There she walked to the same spot where the resemblance of her lover had appeared the preceding night; feeling a strange indefinable delight in visiting a spot endeared by the awful visitation of her beloved and never to be forgotten Gomez Arias. In the garden, therefore, she remained some time, now walking amidst fragrant avenues of orange and citron, now resting on the marble edge of the fountain, refreshing her hands and face in the transparent liquid, or gazing on the clear and sparkling pebbles embedded on the golden sand. Her sighs seemed attuned to the soft but melancholy sound of the murmuring fountain, and she was insensibly falling into her wonted train of reverie, when she was startled by the noise of advancing footsteps; she raised her eyes and perceived a man coming directly across the path on which she was standing; to her utter amazement, she beheld in the disturber of her meditations the person, the very person of Roque. The valet himself was rivetted to the spot at this mutual recognition, and his features exhibited a curious amalgamation of sensations difficult to be defined. He crossed himself thrice, uttered a faint ejaculation, and, with wandering eyes and open mouth, he looked and looked again, as if doubting the reality of what he saw. Being at length perfectly satisfied that it was Theodora herself, the unhappy and forsaken victim of his master, he made a hasty movement to leave the place.

"Stay, Roque, stay!" eagerly cried Theodora; "thou surely dost not mean to leave me thus:—What alarms thee? Is it my dejected and forlorn appearance? Alas! it may well awaken thy surprise; for deep and bitter anguish has left its sad traces on my features."

Roque then approached, but not without casting a look around, as if fearful of being observed.

"What ails thee, Roque?" demanded Theodora surprised; "thou tremblest,—wherefore? What mystery is here?"

"El cielo, San Pedro y San Pablo me valgan!" ejaculated Roque, again crossing himself.

"Oh!" cried Theodora, clasping her hand in eager supplication—"do not harrow up my feelings with this suspense:—Speak!—"

"Good heavens! my lady, how came you here?"

"Alas!" answered Theodora, "the tale of my sufferings is as tedious in length as it has been deep in sorrow; rather inform me of matters far more interesting to my heart: tell me," she then proceeded, with vehement earnestness, "tell me the circumstances of that horrid event which has doomed me for ever to despair."

"That horrid event!" re-echoed Roque, with a look of marvellous stupidity.

"Ah! Roque, it was a fearful deed, and not in vain did my heart warn me with ominous forebodings."

"Yes, gentle lady," said Roque, in a tone of compunction, "it was a fearful deed, I confess."

"And thou, Roque," continued Theodora, "thou hast to answer for a great share of the misery which ensued."

"Alas, my dear lady! I know that my courage failed me in that dreadful moment, but perhaps I am not wholly undeserving of pardon, for what other course could I then pursue?"

"To fight," resolutely said Theodora.

"Fight," returned the valet, "fight! good God! you would not have had me fight a host of ruffian Moors, would you, lady? A thousand they might have been, for aught I know. Indeed, at the time, I lost my talent for calculation, but they looked as many, and as for poor Roque, whom Heaven has been pleased to endow with a most pacific temperament, thinking of fighting a thousand Moors, he might as well be expected to engage against Satan, backed by a whole legion of his infernal subjects."

"But was it well," rejoined Theodora, "to abandon thy master in the hour of danger?"

"Abandon my master!" exclaimed Roque, "valgame el cielo! Under favor, Senora, it was my master that abandoned me."

"Out upon thee, fellow! I thought thee possessed of more manly feelings than to make light with so sad a subject, and introduce an unseemly jest."

"By all the saints in the calendar, lady—but I am in no mood for merriment. I am not in very truth, and may the first jest I attempt to utter strangulate me outright, before it escapes from my lips. But really, with respect to abandoning my master, thank the blessed virgin, that is a crime of which no one can accuse me. A man cannot help feeling shy at engaging in broils and combats, if his star doth not propel him thereto,—and that in verity is pretty nearly my case; but if any one is tempted to question my fidelity, this miserable carcass of mine can bear witness to the contrary, by displaying the honorable bruises I have reaped in the service of my master.—Alack! had I been less constant in following my Senor Gomez Arias, certain cudgellings and beatings without number would not so continually have fallen to the lot of Roque."

"Darest thou speak in this strain," interposed Theodora, "when thou betookest thyself to a shameful flight, at the very first appearance of the Moors, leaving thy gallant and unfortunate master to be murdered at their hands?"

At this unexpected accusation, Roque appeared astounded, and for some time could collect no adequate term to express his surprise. He cast a look of mixed amazement and compassion, shrugged up his shoulders, and, in a scarcely audible tone, muttered to himself:—"Poor thing! may the Lord preserve her—sorrow hath brought this about."

Theodora, heedless of his manner, continued;—"Alas! what was the courage of a single man against the united force of so many enemies?"

"Aye—aye—nothing," responded Roque, "nothing certainly;—but under favor, my good lady, though my master's courage stood ever the fairest test, yet I do not clearly perceive how he is entitled to encomiums for feats which, though he might, he did not actually achieve."

"What!" exclaimed Theodora, with warmth, "would you even defraud his memory of its too-well merited guerdon, the possession of a glorious name?"

"Good my lady," humbly replied Roque, "I would not defraud my master of a single maravedi, much less of so valuable a treasure as a glorious name. But I am strangely puzzled to determine how I can deprive him of a commodity which in my hands would lose its worth. Nor indeed can I perceive why you bestow such commendations on the deeds of my master, since, in the instance to which you allude, I rather suspect he was in nowise anxious to distinguish himself."

"Thy speech," said Theodora, "is enigmatical, and wherefore it is so I cannot surmise. But his very enemies confessed that he fought bravely, and fell like a hero. Aye, Roque, they further added, that had you not abandoned him in that critical moment, their victory would not have been so easily effected."

"Santa Barbara!" cried Roque, more astounded than ever, "the Moors said that? Well it was very kind of the malandrines to speak in such good terms of my honored master.—Good God! good God!" he then continued, in a confused incoherent manner—"My lady, pray forgive my impertinence, but will you tell me if I am awake?"

"Awake!" repeated Theodora.

"Yes, my dear lady, for either I must be now asleep, or you must have been dreaming when the facetious Moors favored you with such an extraordinary story."

"Oh, Roque! cease this ribaldry, so unbecoming in thee when we speak of him whom thou knowest I so much loved—when we speak of his untimely death."

"The death of Gomez Arias, say you!" exclaimed Roque, retreating with increased amazement. "My master dead?—in the name of Heaven! what say you lady!"—

"The truth;—with these unhappy eyes did I see his murdered body in the Alpujarras:—art thou then, Roque, so ignorant of his fate?"

"Oh, quite so," replied Roque; "this is the very first intelligence I received of such an event;—and I suppose you will tell me next that you have seen his ghost."

"Alas!" returned Theodora, "it was but last night that I beheld his figure as perfectly as when I saw him last in the Alpujarras!"

Roque assumed as much gravity as he was able, considering the difficulty he had to restrain his risibility; and, supposing that the intellect of the poor lady was impaired, in a comic serious tone observed:—"Well, my master is a most wonderful man, that his murdered body should be food for the ravens of the Alpujarras, and his troubled spirit be haunting Don Alonso's garden; when at the same time I saw him myself not long since, in perfect sanity of body and soul, parading the promenades of Granada."

Theodora gasped for breath; she gazed on Roque with astonishment. The valet was in the greatest perplexity; but thinking that Theodora still doubted the veracity of his statement, he again, in a serious tone and asseverating manner, said—"Yes, my lady, you are deceived—my master is alive."

"Alive!" screamed aloud Theodora, and her whole frame shook like the aspen leaf; "alive! where? where is he?"

"In this city, and will come to the palace presently. More I cannot tell you, lady;—permit me now to withdraw, and oh! that you might do the same!"

Roque, as we have already observed, was far from being of a cruel and hardened disposition, and his acquiescence in the unprincipled actions of his master arose more from dread of his character than perversity of heart. He was now strangely perplexed, anticipating the disastrous results which might spring from the unlooked-for meeting of Gomez Arias and the forsaken victim of his satiated passion. He almost regretted having removed the error under which Theodora laboured with regard to her lover's death.

Meantime Theodora, partly recovered from the violent shock which her feelings had sustained, felt a chill of doubt and a vague apprehension of evil that deadened the first impression of transporting pleasure which the certainty of her Lope's existence had produced. She endeavoured to give a solution to the enigma, but met with none congenial to her feelings. The circumstance of her lover being in Granada, and apparently unconcerned for her fate, withered the budding hopes within her bosom, for she fondly imagined that Gomez Arias could never be separated from her but by death. This suspense was terrible, and Roque's demeanor tended to increase her anxiety. She fixed her starting eyes on him, and holding his hand with a fearful grasp, in a voice wild with emotion, she exclaimed:—"Roque! Roque! in the name of Heaven, unravel this mystery."

She hesitated a moment, but the very poignancy of her anguish gave her force to demand—"Did Gomez Arias, then, leave me in the power of the Moors without attempting my defence?"

Roque made no answer.

Theodora became intensely excited, and with the piercing voice of despair:—"Then it is true!" she exclaimed, "your silence confirms my fears!"

A ghastly smile was on her lip, and a deadly paleness overspread her features.

Roque now perceived the utter impossibility of keeping his master's cruelty any longer a secret from his victim: yet he dreaded to acquaint her with the whole extent of her misery; he trembled for the consequences that such an avowal would produce upon her feelings, and he knew that with a fond woman of extraordinary sensibility and elevated sentiments, the death of a lover might be more easily supported than his dereliction. On the other hand it was imperatively demanded by circumstances that Gomez Arias and Theodora should never meet again; for, alas! such a meeting could be productive only of reproach and shame to the former—anguish, despair, and perhaps death to the latter.

Theodora, meantime, read in the agitated countenance of the valet a tale of distress more cruel than any she had yet endured; whilst Roque, who trembled lest, by an imprudent continuance of his interview with Theodora, they might be surprised by Gomez Arias, summoned up his resolution, and determined at once to acquaint her with her lover's treason:—"Lady!" he exclaimed with emphasis, "in the name of God, endeavour to brace your nerves against the dreadful intelligence I have to communicate.—You must forget him for ever;—nay, if you consult the happiness of all those that are interested in your welfare or in his, you will decide never to see him more."

"What mean you?" demanded Theodora, with redoubled agitation.

"Your lover is false, lady; you must fly to your parent, or encounter the peril of being immured in the gloomy seclusion of a convent. Such were my master's intentions towards you, when the arrival of the Moors happened in time to frustrate them. Should he, however, learn that you are at Granada, where your presence may throw invincible impediments in his way, the knowledge would be perhaps attended with disastrous results. I am a poor man, a butt to sustain my master's ill humors, but I will not so far dishonor my feelings as to permit the possibility of your being exposed a second time to the dreaded manoeuvres of Gomez Arias. Fly, lady, fly to your kind parent."

Theodora fixed a wild look on Roque, and the horrid nature of his recital seemed to have frozen the springs of feeling. She did not speak, nor was any passion, save that of despair, depicted on her countenance; a settled stupor sat upon her pallid brow, and shone in the cold glance of her eyes.

Roque was moved by the picture of loveliness that stood before him, motionless in the intensity of grief; but he was conscious of the danger he incurred by protracting his stay.

"Alas!" he said in a soothing tone, "you are very, very unfortunate; but consider, lady, the consequences of our being seen together. Allow me to retire, then, and command my services; but, oh, do not by any means appear before——"

He was interrupted by Theodora, who suddenly started before that dreadful name once so endearing could be pronounced.

"Roque," she cried, in a tone and manner that bespoke her possessed of more resolution than could be gathered from the expression of her countenance, "Roque, I will retire; be silent, and let me see you again.—Yes," she added with a voice of presageful import, "it is better I should not see him more!"

She then hastily retired from the spot, and sought the way to her apartment. That feeling so deeply rooted in the female heart—the desire of probing a lover's perfidy to the utmost, determined her to follow the valet's advice. No, she dreaded not the most disastrous consequences; for, alas! what has betrayed woman to fear, when she seeks justice from the man for whom she has sacrificed all! Is it death? Ah! it is her best refuge and only consolation!



CHAPTER VII.

Sierpes apacienta el pecho De una muger ofendida.

Moreto.

Ah taci! ogni parola Mi drizza i crini; assei dicesti; basta Basta cosi, non proseguir.

Monti.

Roque made a precipitate retreat from the garden; for, anxious as the poor fellow was to render any service to Theodora, he still felt no inclination to incur thereby the displeasure of his master, and draw upon himself the full measure of his indignation. The valet resolved to keep a strict silence respecting his interview with Theodora, and he entertained a belief that the fears of the unfortunate girl would induce her to follow a similar course. Thus he flattered himself there was nothing to apprehend farther than the danger of an accidental meeting.

Theodora meantime, a prey to a thousand distracting fears, had locked herself within her chamber, in a miserable state of hopelessness. Tormented with various conflicting passions, she now boldly resolved to meet her perjured lover, and demand an explanation of his cruel and unnatural conduct; but again she was suddenly checked by an instinctive dread which seemed to freeze her powers of action. She despondingly threw herself upon the couch, that gaudy but unconscious witness of her sorrows, and as the briny drops fell fast from their sad fountains, and bedewed the rich silken covering, she exclaimed—

"Yes, it was he himself that I beheld last night."

These few words conveyed a portion of that exquisite anguish that gave them birth.

It was a fearful idea: she had seen her lover a nocturnal visitor to that garden, his face decked with smiles, and his eyes replete with pleasure and hope. He was happy, and thought no more of the lost Theodora. He had forsaken her—her whom he had vowed for ever to love, and to whom he had pledged his word to acknowledge her as his own before the world. This was a masterpiece of ingratitude; and yet Theodora hoped that ingratitude, that blackest stain of the human heart, might have prompted the dereliction of Gomez Arias, rather than love for another. To think that she had entirely lost his love, was a pang more cruel than all she had hitherto endured; and this alas! was the phantom which she strove in vain to chase away, and that most obtruded upon her mind.

The loquacious Lisarda was not tardy in making a second appearance: she knocked for admittance, and Theodora, who in her present state was but little predisposed to encourage her unmeaning chatter, felt nevertheless an inward desire for the presence of her attendant. By her means she could acquire a solution of the mystery with which she so much dreaded to be acquainted, and yet was so anxious to learn. She opened the door, and Lisarda no sooner entered than with her accustomed volubility she began—

"Well, well, my gentle lady, you must forgive me certainly; I have neglected you too long; but then consider, my good lady, what a day this is: what with the expectation of my master's arrival, and the preparations for this wedding, the whole palace is thrown into a marvellous confusion."

"Say no more," replied Theodora; "you need not seek to excuse yourself; I am but a stranger here, and have no right whatever to engross the attention of any one, much less on such an occasion as the present."

"Aye, aye," continued Lisarda, "it is indeed a most busy time. Well, the glorious Don Alonso arrives to-day, and to-morrow his beautiful daughter will be led to the altar by her gallant bridegroom. Only think, my sweet lady, what a wedding this will be. The queen and the Maestre de Calatrava, in the absence of the king, are to be the sponsors."

"That mark of the royal favor," said Theodora, "speaks highly for the merits of both the parties; but I am yet to learn the name of the knight who has rendered himself deserving of such an honor."

She pronounced these last words in a faltering tone, and Lisarda, though a thoughtless woman, soon perceived her agitation.

"Dios nos defienda!"[35] she cried, "what ails you, dear lady? you look so shockingly pale. Well, it is all your fault for being set against taking counsel; now if you could but be persuaded to admit the visit of Samuel Mendez, God knows how much you would profit by his advice; for believe me, lady, the iniquitous Jew cures better than most of our good Christians."

"I assure you," interrupted Theodora, "that my unwillingness to acquiesce with your wishes does not arise from the circumstance of the doctor being a Jew, but merely because my indisposition can receive no benefit from medicine, whether it be administered by an infidel or a true believer.—So, I pray you mention no more this Samuel Mendez, but rather tell me the name of the future partner of Leonor."

"Aye, fortunate indeed, Senora, you may well call him fortunate, for Dona Leonor is a most accomplished lady, a beautiful lady; and were it not that she is——"

"She is most accomplished," interrupted Theodora.

"She is in troth," retorted Lisarda, "and so dutiful a daughter withal. She is now going to meet her noble father in his triumphant entry into the city, and she will be accompanied by her future husband, and a numerous and splendid retinue.—But, hark! hear you not the tramp of horses, and the sound of trumpets?"

She flew to the window, and Theodora, in breathless anxiety, followed.

"There!" cried Lisarda, with glee, "they are about to depart. Now, see, my lady, Leonor mounts—the bridegroom holds the stirrup."

Theodora cast a terrified look, which shot a pang to her inmost heart—It was Gomez Arias who helped Leonor to mount. Theodora saw enough—but one glance, and all the horrors of her fate were revealed. The deluding smile which had seduced her heart, the traitor eloquent eye which wrought her ruin, were now devoted to another.

Theodora uttered no piercing shriek; neither did sigh or groan escape her; but she silently sank backwards in the tranquillity of horror. She had now nothing else to hope or fear; no throbbing anxiety to forego,—no further perils to dread—the sum of her misery was complete, and dauntless she might encounter any disaster; for this last blow had imparted to her the passive courage of indifference and despair.

Lisarda, occupied with the dazzling objects which moved beneath, did not perceive Theodora's situation, and without taking her eyes from the cavalcade pursued her remarks:—

"Now they go—the Lord bless them, how handsome they look! Well, I do not blame my lady's taste, for certainly Don Lope is the most gallant of cavaliers. What think you, my sweet lady? Well, certainly they do say he has many a grievous sin to answer for, in the list of innocent girls he has seduced and undone: the Lord defend them, poor creatures; I pity them. But it was surely their fault:—more fools they for trusting to the fair promises of such a man—what think you gentle lady, am I not right?"

Happily the cavalcade was now out of sight, and Lisarda's observations were accordingly cut short. But she immediately turned to Theodora, who had sat motionless on her couch from the first glance that had acquainted her with the full extent of her wretchedness.

"Well," said the loquacious waiting maid, "what shall I do to divert you, lady? Really I am at a loss. If you are not moved by the splendid sight you have just now witnessed, I cannot imagine what will affect you. Mayhap I might afford some consolation, since you are so strongly bent against the assistance of Samuel Mendez."

"Thank you," said Theodora, raising her eyes towards the speaker, "thank you for your kind intentions, but if anything could tend to the alleviation of my sorrows, it would be perhaps a free and unmolested indulgence of them."

"Oh, dear lady, but we must have no sorrowful faces at the wedding. Virgen de las Angustias! that would be dreadfully ominous. Cheer up, sweet lady; there is nothing in the world like a good example, and when you see every one rejoice, I am sure you will not mar the general joy. Cheer up, good lady—better days will come. To-morrow, at the wedding festival, your thoughts, I engage, will be fixed on other objects; such indeed as are interesting to every female who, like ourselves, is yet blessed in the primeval season of youth. Am I not right?"

"Happy!" cried Theodora, in a thrilling tone, "happy!" Then as if to veil the effect which her exclamation might produce, she added, "who can promise themselves happiness in this world?"

"Alack, and that is true!" responded Lisarda, "for many, many are the lovers who are born to be unfortunate and die of broken hearts." She strove to swell her own with a mighty sigh: "And even those who marry, how oft do they curse the day that—but this is neither here nor there."

"To-morrow! and is it really to-morrow, that the ceremony is to take place?" demanded Theodora.

"There is no doubt of it. God have mercy, the ceremony has been already delayed too long. The young lovers would have been united some months since, had not unavoidable impediments retarded the accomplishment of their mutual wishes."

A clamorous shout, and a burst of trumpets now announced the approach of Aguilar to Granada, and Lisarda with giddy steps sallied out, leaving Theodora to the undisturbed enjoyment of her gloomy reflections. The unfortunate child of Monteblanco had now the most unequivocal proof of her lover's baseness and treachery: Gomez Arias was faithless, but what an aggravation of guilt attached to his infidelity! His cold, heartless villainy seemed to surpass all power of conception, and Theodora for some time remained like one striving to recall the fleeting illusion of a horrid dream. Then she clasped her hands fearfully over her swollen eyelids; a few large drops fell on her cold marbled hands, and in those eyes flashed the wild resolution of despair.

A bitter smile now gently curled those parched and pallid lips, and she raised her trembling fingers to her forehead, expressing all the passive agonies of an absent mind. Then suddenly, as if actuated by a powerful impulse, she sprung upon her feet: she cautiously drew towards the casement in a listening attitude, and the names of Aguilar and Gomez Arias which floated in lengthening sound along the air, threw additional excitement on her already distracted feelings. But one day more, and she was to witness the completion of her lover's union with her rival. What a train of frightful associations this image brought to mind!

Dreadful was the conflict that Theodora had to sustain, and in that unequal warfare, her whole frame underwent an appalling change: her eyes glistened, and her hands shook violently, as she threw back with a resolute movement the tresses of her redundant hair. Again she stopped as if brooding over some frightful design; her throat became swollen with hysteric affection; the blood that hitherto had seemed congealed in its source, rushed with impetuosity down its wonted channels, and the blue veins through which the little rivulet of life had gently flowed, now became dark and turbid as the mountain stream. Her eyes shot the lurid flashes of madness; a wild laugh broke the harmony of the purest voice; and a malignant curl usurped the place where heavenly smiles had habitually sat.

Theodora, that soft and seraphic being who but a short time since, rich in the charms of native grace and loveliness, had been the star of a happy home, and the delight of a fond and admiring parent—that Theodora was now changed into the fearful semblance of a frantic being. Alas! such was the effect that a few moments had wrought, that the eyes of a fond parent would have in vain endeavoured to recognize his darling child. Feelings utterly foreign to the nature of Theodora, had now taken possession of the shattered fragments of a broken heart, once the shrine of hallowed and mental beauty; and those intelligent, soul-stirring features which nature had bestowed as the interpreters of soft sentiments and kindly feelings, now faithfully reflected the workings of impassioned and frenzied woe.

Alas! it is too often found that the gentle female heart, when rudely lacerated by the perfidy of man, is capable of being wrought, by a powerful sense of injury and intense anguish, to the utmost agony which the darker passions can display.

With irregular steps, which bespoke the confusion of her thoughts, she paced the silent chamber that gave back with hollow sound the measure of her steps, while the vaulted passages of the palace echoed at intervals the deafening shouts that were heard from without.

But the fit of frenzied passion under which Theodora laboured was too violent to last. That fatal crisis was approaching, which generally terminates in the immediate accomplishment of a mad suggestion, or with calmness treasures up in silence some direful resolve. The moment had now arrived when the forces of the suffering victim were exhausted; she suddenly became composed; her mind appeared irrevocably fixed on some act of madness, and despair was stamped in the cold and unearthly expression which at that moment subdued her whole frame, and apparently subjected her existence to a new dominion.



CHAPTER VIII.

Aguarda hasta que yo pase Si ha de caer una teja.

Quevedo.

Este misterio aparente Te voy, Senor a explicar.

Zarate.

We think it almost time to retrace our steps, and revert to a character which played a conspicuous part at the beginning of this history. The reader, if not particularly deficient in memory, will perhaps remember a certain Don Rodrigo de Cespedes, who bustled not a little in one or two of the foregoing chapters, though he had the best excuse in the world for subsequently keeping out of the way. It is to him we must return; therefore, patient reader, suffer your attention to be diverted for a few moments from the interest of the present events, and resume your acquaintance with that most deserving and ill-used cavalier. And here, by the way, I may perhaps be allowed to indulge my spleen, by manifesting my extreme dislike to interruptions in general, for there is nothing so vexatious and mortifying as the unpleasant necessity to which an author is obliged to submit of breaking the thread of a narration when it begins to excite some interest.

It is a subject well worthy of notice, that the generality of readers should be of so inquisitive a temperament, that they cannot be induced to take in good part whatever they read, and rely implicitly on the good faith of the author for the correctness of what he advances. By this means, much time and paper might be saved, explanations would be useless, and works would be rendered more compact, and consequently less tedious, which we cannot but consider an infinite advantage to the literary world at large. However, we must take matters as we find them, and as a circumstantial and satisfactory solution is expected by the reader to every incident enveloped somewhat in mystery, let us hasten to comply with the established custom: and now to return—

We left Don Rodrigo with his man Peregil, patiently waiting the leisure of their beasts, sighing, and cursing, and complaining by turns, for want of more suitable recreation. The night was dreary, and the spreading branches of the tree under which our friends had taken shelter, afforded but a meagre accommodation. If their lodgings were comfortless, the supper which they could expect was still more humble and hermit-like;—the bill of fare consisted of some green grass, which though abundantly supplied, presented a most provoking and unrelishing want of variety. We would not venture to determine whether the refinement of their palate stood in the way of their appetite, but it is nevertheless a fact that both master and man left the reverend father's mule and the mesonero's ass undisturbed possessors of the repast. The comforts of supper and rest being, therefore, denied to our wanderers, they resigned themselves to their unpleasant situation, and with the patience that necessity imposed upon them, awaited the approach of morning. Don Rodrigo in particular, being thoroughly impressed with the idea that his rival Gomez Arias had fallen in the encounter, was full of inquietude, and excessively desirous to penetrate further into the mountains to a place of security, where he might lie concealed until their safe return to Granada.

Accordingly, scarcely had the first blush of dawn shed a dubious ray over the still slumbering earth, than with much impatience Don Rodrigo hastened to try how far he might rely upon the complaisance of the mule. Peregil followed the example of his master, and having found that the temper of their beasts had been considerably improved by the abundance of their repast, they quickly mounted, and endeavouring to make up for the loss of time by a tolerably brisk pace, they pursued their route towards the thickest and darkest part of the wilderness.

Two whole days did Don Rodrigo and his attendant continue to wander without making much progress, which may perhaps be chiefly attributed to the perverse disposition of the mule and her companion. Indeed the cavalier and his attendant wandered about much in the same manner that a knight-errant and his worthy squire might be expected to do, with this difference only, that the knight-errant would be eagerly seeking for adventures, whereas Don Rodrigo was equally solicitous to avoid them. The poor cavalier found himself in a most miserable plight; his revenge had been satisfied, but more generous sentiments now occupied his bosom. He reflected, with deep-felt remorse, that for the sake of redressing the fancied wrongs inflicted on him by an individual, he had deprived his country of one of its bravest defenders; then again, like most lovers under similar circumstances, he easily conjectured that the female who had evinced such an unequivocal aversion to his addresses, would feel yet more repugnant to accept them, when offered by a man reeking with the blood of her favored lover.

These and many other reflections of the like nature continued to intrude upon his mind; for it is really a matter worthy of remark how very circumspect and thoughtful a man becomes, when by an undue neglect of those same qualifications he has brought himself into an uncomfortable and perilous predicament. They had by this time penetrated into those places which were under the dominion of the rebel Moors. This circumstance was therefore attended with the greatest danger, and consequently their anxiety and distrust became proportionably augmented as they advanced.

However, Don Rodrigo still bore with manly fortitude the unpleasant and dangerous turn which their affairs had taken, whilst the valet, since he could find no other resource, freely gave vent to his complaints.

"Senor," he cried, turning to his master, "so may the Lord defend us, but we are every instant getting deeper into difficulties. Here are we flying from the clutches of alguazils, to fall into the grasp of the rebel Moors; and after all, unwelcome as the appearance of alguazils may be, I should feel very well contented at this moment to be under their special guardianship, rather than sustain the murderous aspect of these infidels. Nay, would to God that I were safely and comfortably incarcerated within the walls of the most obscure dungeon in Granada."

"Let us then look for our way to Granada, and risk the worst from the friends of Don Lope," said Don Rodrigo, who, though possessed of much personal courage and resolution, yet was aware these qualities would not avail him against the enemies which he was likely to encounter by proceeding.

"Aye, indeed," replied Peregil, "let us find our way to Granada, and may the guardian angel conduct us safely thither.—Blessed be the virgin! for a man like myself, endowed with a lively and poetical imagination, I may say, these wild places are exceedingly disagreeable, for they induce me to make strange metamorphoses: my fancy is continually upon the alert to transform every object into any thing save what it really is: at day-break I mistook my ass for an officer, and your mule for a Moor. Alas! we are alike, my honored master; for you, Don Rodrigo, when in a poetic and loving mood, are ever disposed to convert cheeks into roses, and lips into coral, and to find pearls where others only see teeth. Now, Senor, by a similar process, when a fit of poetry and fear comes upon me, I feel marvellously inclined to convert all objects that come before my view—let alone my ass and your mule—flocks of sheep, flights of crows, stray cows, and barking dogs, into so many, ruffian-looking and hideous Moors; and, moreover, I am fully persuaded that my poetry is not a whit more extravagant than yours."

Don Rodrigo, harassed with the combined inconveniences of hunger and fatigue, paid little attention to the absurdities upon which his timorous valet was commenting; but Peregil, emboldened by the passive forbearance of his master, continued in a higher key:—

"A plague on all lovers, say I; a plague on lovers who for a woman, one solitary woman, when there is so abundant a choice of such commodity in Spain, can be stimulated to cut the throats of each other, risk all sorts of perils, and undergo all the miseries that can afflict human nature. Fye! fye——"

"Peace, thou wretch!" exclaimed Don Rodrigo; "profane not with thy foul remarks and scurrilous rebukes, that tender sentiment which thine own gross and brutish disposition is neither competent to appreciate nor enjoy."

"And most humbly," returned Peregil, "do I thank providence for having given me a heart withal so brutish and so gross, since those refined pleasures and feelings which are likely to lead a man into mischief, are in direct opposition to my taste. Now tell me, my honored master, is there any law, either human or divine, which ordains that, because you most desperately love Leonor de Aguilar, and Leonor de Aguilar as cordially dislikes you, I, who am by no means a party concerned in this love or hatred, ought to be exposed to all the united miseries of hunger and thirst, fatigue, dangers, and even death?"

Don Rodrigo, occupied with very different subjects, heard not the flippant observations of his servant, when suddenly, as they were approaching the skirts of a wood, his reflections and the valet's impertinent loquacity were cut short by the unwelcome appearance of a party of the strolling rebels. They sprung eagerly from their concealment, and in a moment stood before Don Rodrigo and his attendant, bearing on their countenances the marks of their revengeful disposition, and the savage pleasure of meeting with a devoted prey.

"Stand!" fiercely cried one of the ruffians.

Don Rodrigo made no reply, but gallantly drew his weapon, and prepared for a resolute defence.

"What! base Christian! darest thou provoke our anger? Thy life shall pay for the temerity."

"The payment," returned Don Rodrigo, "shall not, at least, be easily extorted."

At this the Moors rushed upon the unfortunate cavalier, who though aware of the impossibility of making any successful resistance against so many enemies, defended himself bravely and undauntedly, while Peregil fled with equal speed and terror. The combat could not be long protracted. Don Rodrigo fell covered with wounds and exhausted from the loss of blood, uttering a faint murmuring complaint on his unlucky fate and disastrous love. The ferocious Moors raised his body from the ground, and as it was the custom with those desperate men when a Christian unfortunately fell into their power, they immediately hung it on a tree. There they left him, and shortly after chance led them to the spot where the hapless Theodora slept, forsaken by her unprincipled betrayer.

The flight of Roque, and the remarks she had heard from the Moors on the night she was taken, led that unfortunate girl to believe that it was her lover who had fallen a victim to the cruelty of those barbarians. Thus she bitterly deplored the supposed death of him who was at the very moment accomplishing the blackest deed of ingratitude.

Meanwhile Roque, instigated by fear, and retreating on the scent of safety, shortly overtook his master, who was not a little surprised and alarmed at the discomposure of his plans, when he perceived his valet appear unaccompanied by Theodora.

"Where is Theodora?" demanded he hastily.

"I don't know," sullenly responded Roque; "probably in Heaven by this time."

"What mean you, villain? didst thou forget my orders?"

"Certainly not, but when I was about to put them in practice, some thousands of most desperate Moors came just in time to prevent my laudable intentions. At first, bearing in mind the gallant master whom I had the honor to serve, it was my determination to fight the unbelieving rascals; but upon second thoughts, I discovered it would be more prudent to yield to necessity, and since it was not in my power to save the young lady from falling into their hands, I considered it laudable to disappoint the rebels of one prisoner at least, whom they might perhaps estimate as the most important of the two; and so, instead of making use of my arms, I had recourse to my legs, which members, on more than one occasion, I have found to be the most serviceable part of my poor self."

Gomez Arias mused for a moment upon the narration of his attendant, as though calculating the probable consequences of the event. Even in spite of the uneasiness which he pretended for the fate of Theodora, he could hardly disguise from himself a species of latent satisfaction. The event removed from his way the only impediment by which his ambitious designs could be thwarted. Theodora, in the power of the Moors, would be even more secure than in a convent, and Gomez Arias, without troubling himself about the probable fate to which his lovely and too confiding victim was exposed, continued his journey to Granada, drowning the recollection of his misconduct in the glittering prospect that was now opening before him.

The next day he met with the glorious army of Don Alonso de Aguilar, by whom he was welcomed with a friendly and parental solicitude. He had the good fortune to act a conspicuous part in the encounter which El Feri sustained at Gergal, and which ultimately led to the complete overthrow of the Moors at Alhacen, and the destruction of that town. Don Lope proceeded to Granada with the prisoners, and to offer his services to the queen upon his arrival. He soon found in the resources of his mind specious pretexts to cover his long absence from Granada, and his apparent dilatory conduct, notwithstanding the notification of his safety sent to him by his future bride. But Leonor de Aguilar, though proud and lofty, was still a woman in her affections, and willingly received the most feeble excuses, when urged as they now were by the eloquence of a favored lover.

Thus Gomez Arias, whilst his victim was abandoned to all the horrors of her fate, whilst her venerable father drank deep the bitter draught of affliction—Gomez Arias, the heartless perpetrator of so much misery, now fondly rioted in the anticipated pleasures of his approaching nuptials, and the splendid honors that awaited his union with Leonor de Aguilar.



CHAPTER IX.

Ecco l'ora—Nel sonno immerso giace ——E gli occhi all'alma luce Non aprira piu mai? Questa mia destra Per farsi or sta del suo morir ministra?....

Alfieri.

Est-ce une illusion soudaine Qui trompe mes regards surpris? Est-ce un songe dont l'ombre vaine Trouble mes timides esprits?

J. B. Rousseau.

The night was far advanced, and the numerous guests whom the hospitality of Don Alonso had summoned together, began to retire from the joyous scene of revelry and feasting. The noisy pleasure was wearing fast away, and those antique halls no longer echoed with the boisterous mirth of so many joyous hearts; for in Aguilar's palace that night every heart was happy,—every heart save one,—one which, desolate and solitary amidst this world of rejoicing, was a prey to the canker sorrow that had fastened upon its core.

But now the convivial assemblage had retired, and the banqueting hall was left to the undisputed dominion of silence and lonely repose. No longer ornamented with all the panoplies of war, and the verdant and perfumed spoils of the garden, those glittering scenes which dazzled the eyes and benumbed the senses, were now no longer resplendent, but wore that chilling aspect which imparts to the mind a painful sensation of melancholy and regret. Upon the long tables still remained the scattered fragments, remnants of the banquet. Here the sumptuous display of the looms of Valencia were stained with the waste of racy and highly flavoured wines, and there broken goblets and ornaments of curious workmanship were flung around in the reckless excitement of the revellers. The lamps were out, and the few that still glimmered in the sockets served but to heighten with their fitful and scanty light the deserted and gloomy appearance of the scene.

Gomez Arias had retired to his chamber in a transport of delight; the most pleasing reveries thronged upon his mind, and as he paced the silent apartment, he inwardly congratulated himself on the near completion of all his hopes—the speedy enjoyment of his fondest wishes. In this ferment of expectation, not a single thought obtruded to damp his ardour, or throw a partial shadow over so bright a picture. Every thing around him contributed to his felicity,—for alas! he did not see the sorrow that was busily destroying those charms by whose power he had been once captivated: nor did he hear the wailings of that voice designed by nature to convey the softest tones of innocence and delight. No, Gomez Arias had no thought for his unhappy victim—far, far was he from surmising that she was at that moment beneath the same roof.

In this delightful mood, Don Lope threw himself upon the superb couch, to pass the night in the luxurious vision of his approaching happiness. The silence was awful! the dull bluish glare of a solitary lamp flung around the dim splendor of the chamber a charm of melancholy tranquillity; the rich arabesque ornaments, the gorgeous tapestry, on which the heroes of other times stood frowning in gloomy repose, were now partially obscured in solemn shadows that might have imparted a sensation of superstitious awe. More faintly now gleamed the expiring light of the lamp, which looked a cold unearthly beam, colourless and fixed, save when the chilling draft of nightly air found its way through a crevice of the ponderous casement, and animated the languid flame with a dull and sickly motion.

Hushed is every sound, when lo! the door gently opens, and a white figure moves slowly forwards. It is a female form, and the lamp that still glimmered in the room, and another which the nocturnal visitor carried in her hand, revealed a picture which might well chill the heart of the most hardened:—it was a female in the first stage of youth, and in whose lineaments could yet be traced the fading remains of beauty. She grasped a dagger, and she came ready steeled for crime. Murder!—the blackest deed of human depravity, revolting to the senses even when instigated by the revengeful passions of man, but in a young and tender female, unnatural, and full of horror. The figure paused, and cast around a dubious and uncertain glance; her whole frame trembled, and the weapon in her hand seemed ready to forsake its grasp. Alas! those irresolute motions, bespoke her nature: it was woman, woman armed for crime, but woman still. With noiseless step she advanced towards the couch; she reached the spot, and gazed with fixed earnestness on the sleeping Gomez Arias; a thousand gloomy thoughts expand on her pallid brow; her dark eyes gleam with the flame of revenge; her livid lips curl with the bitter smile of despair! With difficulty she draws the oppressive breath, and violently shakes the hand that holds the shining weapon. 'Tis a demon that directs her every motion, and imparts to that melancholy and fading picture of youth and beauty, the darkest hues of the fierce and frenzied passions.

But the gust of rage is passed. She looks again upon the sleeper, and a deadly calm overspreads those features but lately fraught with convulsive passion. Fixed to the ground, she now appeared like an inanimate statue, and apparently forgetful of the dire purpose that had brought her to the spot. Poor Theodora!—child of misfortune!—victim of that intensity of feeling which nature seemed to have designed for thy bane and ruin; thou wert guilty but of a single error, and is then that error so severely to be visited! That heaven which made thee pure, and beautiful, and lovely, did it intend that thou shouldst experience all the horrors of the most malignant fate, as a counterpoise for the possession of so may attractions; or was it only to be exemplified as a warning to others, who, like thee, might be rich in beauty and gracefulness, of the dangers which these gifts bring in their train!

Theodora had been guilty of one crime; if, alas! that deserves the name of crime which is the genuine offspring of the sincerest heart. She had loved, and loved with all the enthusiasm of devoted affection. She had been generous, and unsuspecting, and for this she was betrayed and abandoned. Her injuries had so far wrought upon her distempered brain, that she was now about to commit a crime, for which she would be cursed, despised, and perhaps brought to an ignominious end.

Theodora remained a short time in a doubtful mood, and a heavenly spirit seemed to struggle with the malignant fiend that instigated her. She held the lamp in her trembling hand over the sleeping form of her lover, and by the sickly light she discovered his features as if inspired by some happy dream. His breath came thick upon her face, as she bent over the couch. Smiles were upon his lips, and a gentle motion shook his frame.

"He loves her!" groaned the despairing Theodora,—"he loves her dearly, and I am come to——"

At this moment the deep toned bell of the palace sounded the hour, and interrupted her dreadful sentence. Solemnly the peal rung through the place like the death-knell of the perjured lover; but he, unconscious of his impending fate, slept securely and dreamt of love and happiness. For now his lips move, and in the broken articulation of deep but pleasing sighs, the name of her who occupied his mind, burst from his swelling bosom. It was the name of Leonor; the baneful sound went piercing to Theodora's heart, and roused all the furies that held dominion there. The kindly feelings which had returned, now withered fast away. She starts with frenzy; she grows paler, and revenge alone prevails; her bosom rises and falls with fearful emotion; wildly her eyes roll. She resolutely grasps the dagger; the moment is arrived; one blow, and the despoiler of her happiness would cease to exist: she fiercely raised her arm, but at the instant all her strength withered: nerveless she dropped the weapon from her powerless hand: no! she could not strike; for she was a woman maddened by deep injuries, but she still loved her betrayer, and the fountain of her gentle nature again bedewed her heart. She could not strike the man who had, without remorse, inflicted on her the pangs of a thousand deaths: she smiles in bitterness, and hangs over the couch of her unconscious lover, her clustering hair loosely flowing over the pillow; a piteous sigh escapes her, and, bending lower, she kisses the lips that had betrayed her.

Gomez Arias awakes.—Is this a vision? Surely a phantom mocks his sight; the spectre of her he had forsaken stands before him: it is indeed the image of Theodora,—but, alas! how changed! A short time only had flown since last he saw her, and yet so altered was that form, that were it not for a consciousness of guilt, with difficulty he would have recognised her whom he had once idolized. Gomez Arias thrilled as he gazed on the nocturnal visitor; in her pale features could be traced no sympathy with life; a clammy dampness bedewed her brows; a chilling apathy sat upon her countenance. One of her hands now mechanically fell on the feverish breast of Don Lope, and the cold, cold touch imparted a thrill of horror.

In speechless amazement Gomez Arias looked on the mournful figure, and in her glazed eye he beheld one large tear, that, overwhelming the eye-lid, dropt heavily on his hand. It was the tear of anguish, and the drop, as it moistened the hand of Gomez Arias, awakened in his heart a sad remembrance of violated love and truth.

The first impression of astonishment had now subsided, and Don Lope, in a broken voice, exclaimed—"Theodora! Heavens! is it thou?"

"Yes," she answered, gloomily, "it is the lost, the wretched Theodora, once the object of thy adoration, and now thy curse. But tremble not; the dreadful moment is passed, and I cannot harm thee; for though thou hast cruelly betrayed me, thou art still Gomez Arias."

"How came you hither?" demanded Don Lope, with emotion: "What was your intention?"

"Behold!" she replied, with a bitter smile, pointing to the dagger that shone on the ground; "I came to kill thee—I came to deal out a reward but little adequate to the pangs to which thy treachery has eternally condemned me. Oh! Lope! Lope! why didst thou not take from me this wretched life when I was no longer dear to thy heart? I should then have been happy!—Thou didst not—but cruelly left me to the mercy of strangers, when I had none to look upon in life but thee."

All the feelings of an injured, yet fond woman now flowed uncontrolled over that heart where the stormy passions had raged before. She sobbed convulsively, and a shower of tears relieved her breaking bosom. Her weeping countenance was upon her lover's breast, and as he contemplated her deep anguish, and the wreck of those charms which, but for him, had still shone in their native grace, a ray of pity dawned upon his heart, callous as he was. There was something so peculiarly distressing in the situation of the unfortunate girl, that all the glowing considerations of ambition faded for a moment from his view, and his senses were alive only to more humane sentiments.

Gomez Arias no longer loved Theodora; but still when he saw the extent of her misery, and felt her warm tears inundating his bosom, pity partially supplied the place of his departed affection. He took the passive hand of Theodora, and gently pressed it between his own—and happy—happy was at that moment his innocent victim at this solitary mark of kindness. It was like a healing balm to her lacerated soul; but too soon she discovered—for what, alas! can escape the acute penetration of a loving woman—she soon discovered that pity alone suggested the consoling token—pity which might alike have been excited by any other object of distress; and, oh! how little does the sedate voice of pity satisfy the craving bosom of one who had such claims to command unbounded love!

Theodora fixed her eyes on her lover, not in anger but in sorrow, and, in a thrilling and piteous voice, she exclaimed—

"I know you no longer love me; but, Oh! heavens! have I deserved this from you, Lope? Your vows I will not recall, for who can forget them? They are deeply engraven in my heart, and I believed them true,—I loved you, Lope—Oh! I loved you as never woman loved before, and how was such affection requited? Alas! had I suffered the most terrible of deaths, it had been kind compared with thy desertion."

"Yes, Theodora," said Gomez Arias, "your reproaches are just; for well I deserve the most bitter that language can invent; but I was compelled to that necessity by obligations so imperative, so sacred, that they may serve to explain, and perhaps, in some measure, to extenuate the disgrace, which my heart tells me I have so justly incurred."

"Oh!" cried Theodora, "could aught in earth oblige you to abandon one linked to you by the dearest of ties?"

"It was the consequence of former guilt," replied Don Lope. "Theodora, I will deal frankly by you,—nay tremble not at the intelligence which I must disclose, for it is now imperiously required.—Curse me, Theodora," he then added with emotion, "curse the man who has accomplished your ruin. When I courted your affections; when I sought your innocent caresses, then—then, alas! I was the betrayer; for it was then that I deceived your unsuspecting heart."

"Oh! Heavens!" shrieked Theodora, "you never loved me then!"

"Yes, I adored you,—I loved you truly,—passionately, but it was my very love that wrought this misery. I had no strength to reveal the terrible secret: I became selfish and ungenerous; for when I breathed to your innocent ear the vows of everlasting affection, when you repaid my profession with undisguised, pure, and disinterested love, even at that time, my hand, my faith, were sacredly pledged to another."

Theodora hid her face in agony, and wrung her hands in despair, but she could not speak; her heart was full even to breaking, and it was with a severe struggle that she faintly pronounced "Leonor!"

"It is too true," replied Gomez Arias. "Previous to my arrival at Guadix, and my acquaintance with you, my honor was bound to the daughter of Aguilar by indissoluble ties; we were betrothed, and on the point of being united, when an untoward accident drove me from Granada to avoid the vengeance of the friends of my discarded rival Don Rodrigo de Cespedes. Misguided by the fever of passion, I forgot my sacred obligations to Leonor. You have already but too dreadfully suffered, and a repetition of such scenes must necessarily increase the anguish of your situation."

This recital threw the hapless daughter of Monteblanco into that exquisite agony which falls to the lot of woman alone to feel: for man, far happier in the diversity of his pursuits; less susceptible in the refinement of sensibility; more divided in his intercourse with society, can never experience that poignancy of feeling excited by shame and disappointed love, which exert their baneful influence over the heart of forsaken woman!

Theodora answered not her lover; there was something so atrocious in his recital, that in spite of the palliation which a fond woman, even when most injured, is anxious to find for the man who has wronged her, she could not cast a shade over the glaring colours in which Don Lope's treachery was depicted: she recoiled from him with a feeling of apprehension, and her countenance assumed a deadly hue as she fearfully exclaimed—

"And you left me then to perish in the mountains?"

"No, Theodora," eagerly cried Gomez Arias; "no! such intentions never entered my mind; of that at least I am innocent: it was my purpose to have placed you in a convent, and I availed myself of your sleep to spare you the pangs of a separation. Having instructed Roque how to act, I proceeded onwards to make the necessary arrangements for your reception in the religious asylum the Moors surprised you; Roque fled: of the rest I am ignorant, and how I find you here is more than imagination can conceive."

"I came," said Theodora, bitterly—"I came to be a witness of your joyful wedding: it is to be celebrated to-morrow, and I am yet in time."

There was something evil-boding in the tone of these words, and an involuntary chill crept over Gomez Arias as he fixed his eyes on the sufferer.

"Yes," she continued, "it is necessary that the ceremony should be attended at least by one of your victims—the triumph of Leonor will then be more brilliant; and I," she added in a faltering tone, "I shall also enjoy one satisfaction——"

Struck with horror, no less at these words than at the manner in which they were delivered, Gomez Arias looked wildly on Theodora; but was unable for some time to give utterance to his thoughts.

"My poor life," continued Theodora, "must always be an obstacle to your happiness, and it is meet I should make the sacrifice at the foot of the altar, at the time of your union with the choice of your heart."

Don Lope was fixed in deep abstraction; a thousand thoughts rushed across his fevered brain; he raised himself from the couch; a copious suffusion bathed his distended brows, and every thing bespoke the dreadful conflict of his feelings. He saw all his prospects of grandeur fall like the baseless structure of a dream: on the point of snatching the golden treasure, he was arrested as effectually as if by the hand of death. Perplexed with the most distracting thoughts and boisterous passions, he for a time appeared even unconscious of the form that came to nip his hopes in their blossom: but soon a light seemed to illumine his over-clouded imagination, and his brow brightened as if actuated by a sudden resolution.

"Theodora," he said, with a solemn and energetic tone—"Theodora, I will no longer dissemble with you; I have been cruel, barbarous as never man was before: yes, to-morrow I am to be united to Spain's proudest daughter, and all that ambition and glory can offer in dazzling perspective to the ardent imagination of man, all, all is to be fulfilled. But, alas! Theodora, I cannot endure your distress; your tears, your anguish rend my heart, and awaken that affection which was never completely extinguished. Dared I but hope for your forgiveness, how willingly would I make the sacrifice of these glittering bubbles, and return to that path where alone I can find peace and happiness. Theodora!" he continued after a pause, "can you forgive me?"

This appeal was made in a tone so subdued and pathetic, that a conviction of its sincerity was readily admitted by the sorrowing Theodora.

"Forgive thee!" she exclaimed, in a voice thrilling with emotion, whilst a rich glow of animation overspread those pale features: "Forgive thee, Lope! Can Theodora deny you!"

Earnestly she raised her clasped hands to Heaven, and, in the genuine abandonment of an enthusiastic heart,

"Oh God!" she exclaimed, "thy mercies are boundless. Dear Lope!" she continued, "can I do otherwise than forgive you!" and the tear of joy glistened in her eye. "Your returning love will repay me for all the agonies I have undergone. And now you must forgive me—for did I not even now come armed for your destruction! Oh, horror! I came to murder thee—in this spot—sleeping as thou wast! But ah! pardon me; I was then a poor distracted woman, a despairing maniac, and——"

"Stay, my Theodora; reproach not thyself for an act of which I was the cause; it was a fate that I too justly merited. But no more of that. Listen, dear girl, and follow my injunctions, as upon their strict observance depends our future happiness. To-morrow night I will conduct you to your poor deserted parent: together at his knees we will implore forgiveness. He will not be invulnerable to the tears and supplications of his child; and I will forget the wild dreams that have so long tyrannised over my kinder feelings, to fix all my thoughts upon love and Theodora. To the happy termination of these designs, however, you must be willing to pay attention to my instructions."

"I will do all!" emphatically cried Theodora.

"Well," returned Gomez Arias, "take heed that thou keepest silence with reference to our meeting and resolves;—closed in thy chamber, thou must appear an uninterested stranger to whatever may be proceeding without. It will require the utmost delicacy and ability to disclose my determination to the proud Aguilars, when the arrangements with them are so far advanced. It is an insult they will never tamely brook, and all my policy will be necessary to defer, at least for some time, the terrible explosion of their indignation."

"Oh, Lope," exclaimed the fond girl, in a transport of tenderness, "I will—I will obey you faithfully! Your slightest wish shall be to me a law."

The tide of rapturous feeling overflowed her heart. Intoxicated with happiness, she threw herself beside the couch, fervently clasped the passive hands of her repentant lover, and tenderly pressed them to her throbbing bosom. But those transports beat coldly responsive within the breast of Don Lope; for pity and a sense of duty are but poor and inadequate substitutes for the glow of passion. Still, however, recollection brought to his fancy raptures past and endearments since flown; and memory perhaps made him cherish the present by vividly recalling the past. But it was like the melancholy regretful pleasure which is experienced by one who revisits the scenes of his childhood. He may indulge in the recollection of those departed joys, but his mind is estranged by other feelings, and can no longer enjoy those pleasures which formerly constituted his happiness.

The morning was now fast approaching, and a separation became indispensable.—Theodora made a hasty recital of her adventures and withdrew, replete with returning joy; for she had passed a few moments with greater delight than perhaps she could ever again experience in this world—those blissful moments when hearts severed by destiny, or alienated by misfortune, again unite in the genuine bonds of revived affection.



CHAPTER X.

Oh! what a jewel is a woman excellent!

Beaumont.

Mais qu'aisement l'amour croit tout ce qu'il souhaite!

Racine.

I humbly offer my advice (but still Under correction), I hope I shall not Incur your high displeasure.

Massinger.

Oh, Woman! lovely devoted Woman! Of what mysterious particles could nature have formed so strange a being—made up, as it were, of contradictions, and yet deriving from that very inconsistency its principal attraction. Uncertain and wavering, but amiable in that very weakness. When impelled by affection or smarting under highly excited feelings of injury, thou art capable of the most noble enthusiasm, or the darkest exhibitions of passion. Man, proudly arrogating to himself a despotic sway over the higher walks of intellect, and the wild and luxuriant fields of imagination, has left thee undisputed sovereign of the empire of the heart! He is often happy to avail himself of that more delicate discrimination, an instinctive feeling with which nature has gifted thee, though jealous of permitting thee to share in his power. Woman! thou wert born to grace and smooth the rugged path of life; the advancement of one endearing sentiment is the prized object of thy existence, and its successful termination thy reward. Debarred by nature and education from the glittering pursuits of ambition; incapable by the delicacy of thy frame, and the softness of thy nature, of following the rude pastimes, and participating in the laborious and dangerous avocations of man, thy whole being is wrapt in the charm of that one feeling—love! A feeling the most congenial to thy nature—blissful in the possession, and often but too fatal in its effects. Man seeks thee as a friend, to treat thee like an enemy. Thou lovest—he triumphs! and then he spurns thee because thou hast been kind. Base and degrading contradiction of human nature!—that because man is endowed with greater powers of attack, than woman has strength to resist, in the unequal strife, odium and shame should attach to the victim, whilst the betrayer acquires a false lustre from his unmanly triumph!

But Woman! such is the angelic essence of thy being, that while capable of feeling with poignancy the shafts of ingratitude and neglect, thou art still ready to pardon, and ever disposed to forget, when repentance makes an appeal to thy compassionate and gentle heart.

Such a woman was Theodora!—After having borne the extremity of sorrows, which seemed to surpass the strength of human forbearance, instigated by madness and despair, she had grasped the dagger in that soft hand little adequate for a deed so dark; like the midnight assassin, she had entered the chamber of her wronger, bent upon the commission of crime. But the sight of him who was once so dear disarms her—she cannot accomplish the deed of guilt, and the sudden repentance of her betrayer, like a potent charm, soon dispels the evil passions to which she was a prey. Only a few words of comfort had Gomez Arias spoken before the voice of sorrow was hushed in her heart. Nay, the man who had wounded her so deeply, was endeared by his very cruelty; for, alas! Theodora felt she loved him now more tenderly than ever.

She had forgotten the former treachery of her lover, and, incapable of anticipating the possibility of a renewal, she retired to her chamber to revel in her happiness, and await the coming of the day in anxious expectation.

In the meantime, Gomez Arias was pacing his apartment in the utmost impatience and agitation. Scarcely had Theodora withdrawn and the first impulse of pity subsided, than the sense of the danger to which his ambitious projects were exposed, rushed upon his imagination, and silenced every other consideration, save that of their accomplishment. Morning came, and still found Don Lope measuring his chamber with an irregularity of step that well bespoke the disorder of his feelings. Sometimes he paused and pondered upon an idea which seemed to offer him security, and then he rejected it as unavailable. Then he muttered half broken sentences, and then again suddenly composed himself into a saturnine tranquillity. After this he raved like a madman, and bitterly cursed the unfortunate Theodora as an insurmountable impediment to his views; forgetting that it was by the guilty indulgence of his own unworthy passions that he was now entangled in the intricate perplexities which surrounded him. The ill-fated victim of his guilt, fortunately for her short-lived happiness, heard not the ungenerous reproach. Alas! she was fondly indulging in the supposed kindness of her lover, and longing to clasp him in her arms; whilst the object of her endearment was at the same moment ungenerously contriving how to disengage himself from that embrace.

His present deceit was the natural consequence of the system he had adopted. To relinquish the brilliant prospects which presented themselves to his ambition, merely to listen to the voice of justice, and give redress to the injured, was too great an effort, encompassed as he was with the thousand conflicting passions that silenced the murmurs of neglected duty. His aversion to Theodora now acquired additional strength from the dilemma in which he was involved. He had never for a moment contemplated breaking his engagements with Leonor; he was unwilling even to calculate upon a possibility of such an event, for his honor and pride were both too deeply interested; yet it was of the most urgent necessity to delay the ceremony, and how to conciliate these matters was the source of his present uneasiness. What pretext could he assign plausible enough to justify so extraordinary a resolution?

A thousand plans suggested themselves, all of which he discarded as unavailable: he was apprehensive that night would surprise him before any arrangements could be entered into with regard to Theodora; and to attempt any coercive means of conveying her from the palace of Don Alonso would be madness. At all events he must avoid any interview with Theodora whilst his conduct might be subjected to observation; for at such a time the attention of all the household would naturally be directed towards him.

In this perplexity he was surprised by his faithful valet, who came in the morning, according to custom, to receive his orders. Roque entered, and was not a little surprised to observe his master's abstraction.

"Good morrow to you, Senor," said he, making an humble bow, and advancing towards the musing cavalier; but Don Lope made no answer whatever, nor did he take the slightest notice of his salutation.

"There!" continued Roque. "Dios me bendiga![36] my precious master is in a most thoughtful mood. I had always the power of rousing him from his meditations, but now they appear too powerful for my humble abilities." "Don Lope," he proceeded in a louder key, "good morning to your honor," and he accompanied this Christian-like wish with as many noisy demonstrations as were compatible with good order.

"Oh!" cried Don Lope, suddenly starting, "is it you, Roque?"

"The same, Sir, at your service," replied the obsequious valet.

"Curse thee!" returned his master, "why makest thou that noise?"

"Thank you, dear master, that is a most amiable morning salutation; it augurs well too on a wedding-day."

"Pshaw! my wedding-day!" cried Gomez Arias, impatiently; and he again relapsed into his train of reflection.

"Eh?" ejaculated Roque; "I wonder what is in the wind now; all is not right, I perceive. Senor Don Lope, may I so far intrude on your most important meditations, as to demand what has sent your wits a wool-gathering so early in the morning: surely your dreams have not been unpleasant—for my part I cannot bear terrible dreams; they are ominous, particularly on the eve of a wedding——"

"Hold thy foolish chatter," interrupted Gomez Arias; "it is not a dream that troubles me, but a reality, a most mortifying reality. Roque," he then added in a more familiar tone, "I am involved in a labyrinth from which it will be no easy matter to extricate myself."

"I am very sorry, good Senor; for my part, I can very well conceive that a prudent man has cogent reasons to ponder and reflect more than a philosopher, when he is on the point of being entangled in the labyrinth of matrimony. Yes, Sir, I allow it is a most dangerous experiment: it is a voyage menaced with all sorts of foul weather, and surrounded with shoals, quicksands, and rocks, so that——"

"Roque, a truce with your cursed metaphors," cried Don Lope, "or I'll blow such a storm about thine ears, as to surpass all description."

"Sir," replied the valet, "if you dislike storms, I have not the smallest affection for them, so I'll even hold my tongue."

"Roque," said Gomez Arias after a moment's silence, "I am threatened with the loss of the rich treasure which I have so long and so arduously toiled to obtain."

"Treasure, Senor!" cried the wondering valet. "Cuerpo de Cristo! Treasure! Be pleased to explain: I was not aware that you expected a rich treasure; from what quarter is it to come? My dear, dear master, I suppose you will then pay me all my vails."

"Here's an infamous sinner!" exclaimed Gomez Arias; "an unconscionable dog, to be talking of money and filthy wages when his master is labouring under the most perplexing dilemma in which ever mortal man was placed. Roque, I do not see what prevents me from shaking thy rascally form to atoms."

Don Lope, in his anger, made a step in advance, while Roque prudently made one in retrograde.

"Don Lope," cried the retreating valet, "as I hope for salvation, it is not my wish to offend: you appear in a terrible passion, and there is certainly some mystery at the bottom: something preys upon your mind, and if you would make me acquainted with it, perhaps I might devise a remedy for the evil."

"You cannot, Roque," returned his master, somewhat composed; "you cannot contrive to defer this wedding!"

"Virgin del tremedal," ejaculated Roque, crossing himself, "and is it come to this at last? So you have discovered some imperfection in the beauteous bride; some failing of which you were ignorant; better before the ceremony than after. But it would be a marvellous pity to spoil the feast, after the splendid preparations made to celebrate it with the state and decorum to which it is entitled. Lord bless us! a curious business we should make of it. But never mind; perhaps it is for the best after all."

"Now, Roque, hast thou finished? Who in the name of Satanas[37] can hear with patience thy everlasting foolery! I do not intend to postpone the celebration of the wedding from inclination, but because I am so compelled by unavoidable circumstances."

"What say you, dear master? surely nothing has happened."

"Yes, something, and most extraordinary; thou wilt be astonished at what I have to relate, Roque."

"Proceed, Senor; hold me not in suspense, and I can verily assure you, that nothing is wonderful to me."

"I have seen," continued Gomez Arias, in a solemn tone,—"I have seen Theodora!"

"Theodora!" echoed Roque, affecting surprise. "Seen Theodora! in your dreams, perchance, my good master."

"I have seen her," returned Don Lope, "as plainly as I now see thee. Nay, I have spoken with her."

"Where, Senor Don Lope?"

"Here, in this very apartment."

"You astonish me," proceeded Roque, "and yet I cannot say it is so very strange, neither; for I, myself, saw her—that is, I dreamt I saw her—and dreams, you know, my honored master, are often the precursors of realities."

"Enough," cried Gomez Arias; "we must now think on the means of averting the danger."

"The danger!" quoth Roque; "in the name of San Pablo, what danger do you apprehend?"

"Oh, Roque! I am threatened with the worst of evils."

"Virgen Santa! what say you, Senor?"

"Theodora expects me to relinquish the intended wedding, and depart hence with her, or she will expose me at the very altar."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Roque! "what, is not the gentle lady already tired of rambling? Good God! I should have imagined she had had too many mountain adventures to be longing to take another trip with you."

"Roque," said Gomez Arias, "we must remove this girl out of our way."

"Our way!" quoth the man of confidence—"our way, my good Senor? she is not in my way, by any means."

"No, buffoonery, Sirrah! you have chosen ill your time for jesting. Now listen, varlet. This Theodora must be disposed of; the urgency of this measure is obvious."

"Very obvious," responded Roque.

"The sooner the better," continued Don Lope, musing.

"Exactly," rejoined the valet.

"And how this is to be accomplished," muttered Gomez Arias, "without exciting suspicion among the household, I cannot conceive."

"Nor I," returned Roque.

"It is really the most distressing circumstance," continued his master.

"Uncommonly distressing," echoed the confidant.

"Of course," proceeded Don Lope, "I must employ stratagem; the wedding must be delayed; I will boldly accost Don Alonso. I shall merely demand one day, and in that short interval, every thing must be arranged, some way or other."

Don Lope uttered this last observation with the most imperturbable sang froid, and the conscientious Roque, wisely reflecting that under the head of disposing of cumbersome damsels, there were some ways not altogether in accordance with the dictates of conscience, ventured to observe——

"Pardon me, Don Lope, but I hope that in the premeditated disposal of this troublesome commodity, you do not mean to use any violence; for the Lord knows that the poor lady is already but too deserving of compassion."

"Thou art an impertinent, officious fool, Roque."

"That may be," coolly retorted the valet. "But be pleased to observe, that from the very commencement of this adventure—from the very first moment that you poured your sweet poison into the ear of this innocent young creature, I strenuously set my face against such proceeding; something whispered to me, that it would ultimately be productive of the most disastrous results; time will show that forebodings are sometimes to be credited. So be pleased to recollect, Senor, how often I remonstrated with you about this melancholy business."

"I do, Roque; and I suppose you likewise recollect what you gained by your eloquent remonstrances?"

"Oh, Sir," replied Roque, "favors they were, so deeply engraven, that it would be difficult to efface them from my remembrance."

"Well," continued Gomez Arias, "know, Roque, that I am at this time just in a humor to treat you with a renewal of such like favors, if you do not immediately put a stop to your droning and most impertinent reminiscences. I do not ask your condolence and regret for what is past, for that now cannot be remedied. I want thy shrewdness and invention to aid me in the present emergency. Violence I will not employ, so let your scruples be at rest. I must now see Don Alonso, and prepare the way for ulterior plans. Roque, I recommend thee to preserve a strict silence on the matter, if thou art not entirely disgusted with life. Now begone,—and meet me two hours hence at the Plaza Nueva."

Roque made a low bow of assent and withdrew; whilst Gomez Arias, assuming as much resolution as the importance of the occasion demanded, left his apartment to meet Don Alonso de Aguilar. Scarcely had he quitted his chamber than he beheld, with no little emotion, the bustle and activity which prevailed over the whole palace, on account of the expected festivities of the day. Here were maids, in fine attire, tripping gaily along, simpering and smiling, and all good nature and amiability. There ran servants in gorgeous dresses parading about in their respective departments, and assuming importance in proportion to the degree of responsibility which they were to take at the festival; and handsome pages were seen carrying bridal favors in large and beautiful silver salvers. Then came a crowd of friends, eagerly making their way to Gomez Arias, and offering their congratulation to the happy bridegroom; while the bridegroom, so congratulated, bore on his countenance an expression of any thing but happiness. Nor were these tokens of kindness confined alone to friends; for the fame of the wedding had attracted a proportionate number of hungry bards and minstrels who came at an early hour to greet the bridegroom with their songs and rhapsodies, whilst Don Lope, as it may well be supposed, responded to their love ditties and congratulations with most hearty curses.

He traversed the long galleries and spacious halls of the palace, already besieged with numerous visitors—some attracted by the splendor of the festival, and others by the odour of savoury and delicious things that would grace the convivial board—indeed, from the number of intelligent artists employed in the preparations, the connoisseurs in culinary science augured favorably of this department of the feast. Don Lope with difficulty escaped the compliments and embraces of his soi-disant dear and respected friends, and making his way through this mighty army of parasites, called to one of the servants, and caused himself to be announced to Don Alonso de Aguilar.

He found the warrior already attired for the ceremony, and girding on a most magnificent sword, which he only used on solemn occasions. After the first salutations had passed, Gomez Arias remained for a few seconds pondering within himself the best means of breaking to Aguilar the disagreeable communication with which he came prepared. A consciousness of the imposture he was meditating, rendered his situation in the highest degree embarrassing, and his habitual self-command seemed almost to have abandoned him at this critical moment. The old warrior perceived the constraint of his manner, and was struck with the singularity of a conduct so much at variance with the usual courtly ease and style of Gomez Arias.

He waited therefore for some time in expectation that Don Lope had something to communicate; but as the young cavalier appeared in no haste to signify his wishes—

"Don Lope," at length, said Aguilar, "you are really too thoughtful for a man on his wedding-day."

A pause ensued; and the affair becoming more perplexing every minute, Gomez Arias found the urgency of adopting a decisive step. He summoned, therefore, all his adroitness, and with much deference and respect he said to the father of Leonor,—

"Don Alonso, an unexpected event has just been imparted to me,—and the distress which my feelings have sustained, has no doubt excited your surprise,—but before the ceremony proceeds, however great my reluctance, it is imperatively required that I should communicate with you, and solicit your advice in this difficulty."

"Proceed, Senor," said Don Alonso; "though allow me to observe, that any communication of importance ought to have been made before this day."

"Don Alonso," resumed Gomez Arias, with firmness, "there are circumstances in life which are not controllable by the will of man. Strange as the request which I am about to make may appear, it is absolutely necessary. Sir, with all the respect which you are entitled to command, but with all the firmness which duty requires of me, I must throw myself on your indulgence, and pray you to defer the wedding until to-morrow."

"What!" exclaimed Aguilar, struck with surprise at so extraordinary a demand; "defer the wedding! Don Lope, what means this?—Surely you do not intend to affront my house!"

"The honor of your house, Don Alonso de Aguilar," answered Gomez Arias, with composure, "is now intimately connected with my own; and it would be unjustifiable to suppose me guilty of such intentions."

"What am I then to think of your strange proposal?" demanded Aguilar—his brow mantling with indignation.

"It is a request," replied Gomez Arias, "that I would never have contemplated of my own accord; and you may well imagine what my feelings must be when I am obliged to postpone my happiness even for one day. Certainly it is no trivial inducement that could prompt me to such a measure; I hope this will plead my justification. I have received a dispatch from my valued friend Count Urena, stating that he is seized with a mortal distemper, and conjuring me, as I esteem the blessings of a dying man, to repair to his couch ere it be too late. He has a most important communication which must be intrusted to no one but Gomez Arias. The castle of the Count," added Don Lope, "is but six leagues distant, and I shall be back by to-morrow. Now, Don Alonso, I crave your advice: shall I disregard the last request of a man to whom my family are under sacred obligations, or will you allow the ceremony to be delayed till to-morrow, by which means I shall be enabled at once to fulfil the dictates of honor and humanity, without trespassing too far on my own happiness?"

Don Alonso de Aguilar was in some manner reconciled to the necessity of the measure proposed by Gomez Arias, though his pride received a severe check, the effects of which were easily to be discerned in his features.

"But," said he with some asperity of tone, "my permission is not the only one you are to obtain, Don Lope. My daughter must be consulted—have you received her sanction? The Queen also must be forthwith apprized of this sudden change, and I know not how her Highness may be disposed to acquiesce in the alteration."

Gomez Arias promised easily to remove all difficulties with his bride, if Don Alonso would immediately use his influence with the Queen, and urge the necessity of the delay. He was aware that the high spirit of Leonor would, under any circumstances, deeply resent such a measure; still he confidently relied on his own abilities and persuasion to overrule any objection on her part. He hurried therefore to her apartment, craved admittance, which was granted, and found himself before his intended bride, rendered still more beautiful by the costly ornaments with which she was adorned.

"Well, Don Lope," said she smiling, while surveying herself in the mirror, "what think you of my appearance?"

"As of a divinity to whom I bend in adoration," gallantly replied Gomez Arias, and taking her hand he pressed it to his lips with respectful tenderness.

Leonor replied to this mark of her lover's regard with a look of affection.

"But," exclaimed she, laughing, "I cannot compliment Senor Don Lope, upon the taste of his toilet. No doubt he will tell me that his imagination has been altogether engrossed with my beauty, and that he has not bestowed a single thought upon himself: however," she continued in the same strain, "from the respect we owe to the Queen, and the noble friends who will honor us with their presence, it will be necessary to recall the attention of the cavalier, even to so unworthy a subject as himself."

She was still proceeding, when Gomez Arias, who considered every moment he lost of vital importance in the arrangement of his plans, resolved at once to acquaint her with his determination.

"It seems fated, dear Leonor," he said, "that I am to experience a greater share of disappointment than usually falls to the lot of man; scarcely has the late impediment to our union been removed, and I am on the point of succeeding to my heart's fondest wishes, when——"

"Surely, Lope," interrupted Leonor, with emotion, "your rashness has not again placed you in the peril from which you have so lately escaped—and yet your dress and deportment bespeak something disastrous—Speak—say, Don Lope—let me know the worst."

"Calm yourself, dearest Leonor; there is no danger to apprehend."

He then, in a few words, explained what he had already said to her father, and in soothing terms solicited her consent to what he proposed.

"What need is there of my consent," she said, whilst her countenance betrayed the mortification she experienced, "to a measure that meets the approval of the Queen and my father! Certainly," she continued, "let us defer the ceremony."

There was something in the tone in which these words were delivered, that thrilled to the heart of Don Lope; for the sarcastic smile and the forced tranquillity which Leonor had assumed, plainly indicated that her pride had been deeply wounded, though she affected to treat the affair with indifference. Gomez Arias had recourse to all his eloquence in order to smooth the resentment awakened by his proposal, but Leonor repelled his advances with a resolute dignity of manner.

"Go, Don Lope," she said, proudly, "you are losing time here—consider the state of the Count; and unless you make good speed, he may never know the kind and valuable friend he possesses."

She then called her attendants, and with the most perfect indifference began to divest herself of her ornaments, urging all the time to her future husband the necessity of immediate departure.

Gomez Arias, though reluctantly, was compelled to leave his bride, and hurried away further to promote the accomplishment of the plots which distracted his attention.

Leonor was soon disrobed of her bridal garments, and the disconcerted maids were lost in astonishment at the extraordinary change which had taken place. Nor could they explain the cheerfulness of manner visible in their mistress, when she announced that the wedding was to be deferred. But under the apparent indifference of Leonor, rankled a deep feeling of injury. The same pride that resented her lover's determination, forbade her to exhibit any degree of concern; but though the feeling was repressed, its effects would be more lasting than if expended in reproaches and complaints.