my love, my time is but short. The priest awaits

us.

"I am ready," replied she, extending him her hand, with a smile of ineffable tenderness and sweetness.

"My own, my life!" said he, rapturously embracing her, "let us hasten from this dull place. Every moment that we lose is fraught with danger."

"Heaven guide me!" cried she, clasping her hands. "Oh! Don Alonzo, I am alone with thee a helpless, confiding girl, away from her friends, her family, her home. If thou shouldst fail me!" "Foolish child," murmured he, pressing her still more fondly to his heart, "is not this the hour of our marriage? Come."

When the lovers descended, they found the landlady waiting for them in the passage. "It is on the stroke of midnight," said she. May God shield ye both from the assassin's knife. The streets are dangerous at this hour, Signor."

"I have my sword," replied Don Alonzo, "and we shall soon return."

The church of the Dominicans was outside the walls, on the other side of the Guadalquivar, whose bed, dried up during the summer months, resembled a vast moat traversed by stone bridges. The beautiful walk of the Alameda then shaded, as it still shades, the left border of the river, and terminated at the walls of the convent which was partly concealed on this side by the thick foliage of the trees which threw their branches across its Gothic front. Here the building was buried in profound darkness, and the solemn stillness that reigned around was unbroken, save by the wild notes of the solitary nightingale, and the murmurings of the distant waters. Two shadowy forms glided beneath its portal, which stood partly open to receive them. They were those of Don Alonzo and Theresa de Vasconcellos.

"Well," said Don Alonzo to Paco Rosales, who had awaited their arrival in the church, " is all ready for the ceremony ?"

"Yes, Signor; the tapers are lighted, and father Cyrillo at the altar; but there is one thing which your highness has forgotten."

"Which ?"

All was in deep obscurity at the end of the nave, but a dim light proceeding from two side chapels that faced each other shone across the tesselated pavement, and partially illumined the steps before the altar. Theresa advanced in deep and silent meditation up the aisle; suddenly a cry of horror escaped from her trembling lips. In one of the cha pels, hung with black, was a bier, on which was stretched the corpse of a monk, arrayed in all its religious vestments. Its pale and ghastly countenance looked out in bold and terrible distinctness from the dark cowl which surrounded it; one of its stiff and bloodless hands grasped a green branch of palm, while the other closed upon the silver crucifix which lay upon its breast. Father Cyrillo, seated in a stall, had fallen asleep as be watched by the dead monk.

Theresa, struck with some horrible presentiment, shrieked aloud. "Merciful Heaven protect me!" cried she, "Oh! Alonzo, is this bier to be our altar, the dead the only witness of our marriage?"

"Come this way," cried he, leading her towards the opposite chapel, "do not tremble thus, am I not with thee ?"

But the arm that supported the form of the timid girl, shook with some deep emotion, and the strong man staggered under the light weight of his innocent, but too confiding victim.

"Signor," said the monk, who had but just awoke from his sleep, "I have been waiting for thee-approach."

"Father," interrupted Don Alonzo, in a faltering voice, "the witnesses are not yet come."

The two lovers prostrated themselves on the steps before the altar. It was a strange picture; on one side of the church lay the dead in the midst of funeral pomp and solemnity, on the other knelt the quick, surrounded by the gay emblems of life and marriage. Before them stood the pries', robed in his canonicals, and an open book in his hand, ready to begin the ceremony.

"Here are our witnesses," said Don Alonzo, as the sound of several footsteps echoed through the aisle.

"Yes, Don Alonzo," cried a severe and angry voice behind him, "here are thy witnessess," and immediately several armed men surrounded the altar. "Oh Heavens !" exclaimed he, starting to

CHAPTER 11.

A BETRAYAL.

THE Duke de Medina Sidonia, followed by se veral gentlemen of his household, had entered the church, and now stood face to face with his son Don Alonzo de Guzman. Theresa, pale and statuelike, remained kneeling on the steps of the altar. After a moment of deep and painful silence, the duke spoke, "Don Alonzo, if thou art still worthy of thy name, follow me."

"I will listen to thee when we are out of this. Follow me, I command thee," replied the duke, turning to leave the church.

'Signor," said Don Alonzo faintly, "can I abandon this young girl? I have seduced her from her family, from her affectionate husband"

"By Saint Jacques!" interrupted the Duke, contemptuously, "she must be crazed to look so high. And hast thou deluded her into the belief or the possibility of such a marriage. Hast thou forgotten that there are laws to protect and guard the honour of the noble families of Spain, and that it does not depend on thee to sully the princely name thou bearest. What! my son, my only son, with royal blood flowing in his veins, marry a nameless girl! Bestow upon her the honours and titles which thy noble mother so proudly bore! No, no, Don Alonzo, it shall not be. I would rather see thee a corpse at my feet, than the husband of one beneath thee."

Aroused by this insult from the momentary stupor into which she had been thrown by the strange and unexpected scene before her, Donna Theresa suddenly yet tremblingly arose from her kneeling posture, and, drawing herself up to the full height of her graceful and commauding form, replied to the sarcasms of the haughty Duke de Sidonia, with that dignity and persuasiveness that belongs to proud and sensitive natures alone.

'Signor," said she, "it is no nameless girl who has followed thy son to the altar, but a high-born and disinterested Spanish maiden, who had given her whole heart, with all its first affections, in exchange for what was to her a nobler and a richer gift than the vain empty sound of a nameme-his love. If she has erred, it has been against herself, her outraged family, and affianced lover; not thee nor thine, proud Duke-who hast thought it no shame to insult a defenceless woman, even whilst she knelt before the sacred altar of her God, and thine! She cannot appeal against this insult and cruel injury, for she stands alone, without a friend to shield and protect her from the insolence and contempt of licensed power. But she can kneel and sue for the mercy and justice which she cannot command. On my knees, then, I beg-implore-for more than my life, my honour!"

"Rise, madam, "said the duke, in a tone of disdainful pity, “I will pay your way into what ever convent you may select for your future abode; but let us end those worse than useless arguments. Don Alonzo, thou hast heard my commands. Follow me!"

"Don Alonzo," said she proudly, as she rose from her knees, "a noble Spaniard keeps his promise. Theresa de Vasconcellos will not wait to hear thee perjure thine own words. Farewell!" Overwhelmed with shame, disappointment, and fear of his father's anger, Don Alonzo could make no reply to this dignified reproach, but stood with

"Farewell! Don Alonzo!" repeated Theresa, as she moved away in the direction of the opposite chapel.

"Adieu, Theresa," faltered he whose daring passion, and whose wild, impetuous energy were all subdued and crushed beneath the influence of parental authority. Like all persons who sacrifice their duties to their inclinations, and gratify their passions without considering the evil consequences that may result to others, Don Alonzo was weak, selfish, and cowardly. He saw the young girl whom he had seduced from her home, whose unsullied name he had dishonoured, spurned, and insulted before his face, without making one effort to mollify his father's resentment against her, or to shield her from the scorn to which his heartless selfishness had exposed her. Apart from her side, he suffered her to stand alone in the midst of strange and armed men; and when his father turned to leave the church, he followed in his steps, nor cast one look at the victim he left behind him, a prey to her anguish and despair.

"Merciful Father!" cried she, sinking on the steps of the altar, as their receding footsteps echoed through the aisles, "Justice! justice-or I shall die. Oh, that I were dead-stretched like that cold corpse in yonder chapel!"

Rise, daughter," said a voice near her, but Theresa heard it not, for she had fainted. Pale and deathlike, the young girl lay motionless as the dead she had so lately gazed upon with such prophetic horror. Her dark hair, loosened from its continement, fell over her shoulders, and swept the steps of the altar.

"Daughter," repeated the priest, as he endea voured to raise her, "take courage. He in whose house of prayer thou art will not forsake thee if thou forsake not Him. Look up. Put thy trust and faith firmly in Him who will not betray thee.

Grieve not for one who is not worthy of thy He is gone; rejoice that he is; for he meant thy ruin."

love.

At these words, Theresa slowly opened her eyes, but scarcely appeared conscious of having heard them. The monk was kneeling by her side, and the two mendicants stood leaning against a pillar, gazing upon her with deep and compassionate in

terest.

"Daughter," said the monk, " put thy trust in God, and submit to his will, with the resignation of a good Christian. Return to thy family and all will be well again.”

"Never!" interrupted she, with gloomy energy; "I have no longer any family; I am alone in the world-dishonoured-disgraced !"

"Where wouldst thou go then, my daughter ?" interrupted the monk.

"I know not; suffer me to remain here for this night, father. Here will I pray to the Almighty to direct me what to do." Weak and tottering she then arose, and went into the funereal chapel

where lay the dead monk, and, kneeling down by the bier she gazed in silent earnestness upon the livid countenance before her, as if she sought in the eternal repose of its rigid features for strength and patience to support her in the future trials of her now desolate life.

The monk had resumed his prayers for the dead. The two mendicants had retired.

"If I had known thy design," said Paco Rosales, in a tone of deep resentment, "thou shouldst not have accomplished it. They would have been man and wife by this time."

"By Heaven!" interrupted Tovalito, "in revenging myself, I have saved that young girl. Don Alonzo, by some means or other, would have annulled the marriage; she would not have been his wife, but his mistress--a mistress whom he would have remorselesly adandoned after having satisfied his passion. Miserable, cowardly villain that he is! A word, a mere angry threat has been sufficient to make him abandon her-and in what a manner! Without one look of pity or regret, without a whisper of consolation, or promise to see her again! Oh, I could have planted my dagger in his dastardly, unmanly heart, when I saw him quit her side, and stand cowering before his father-as vain and haughty an old man as any crowned head in the two kingdoms."

I see but one way of repairing this misfortune, which is to go and tell the Senora Donna Beatrice that her daughter is found. Besides, we may gain something for the information. It is worth a reward, and the marriage may take place after all, between Donna Theresa aud Don Antonio," said Paco.

"I see no chance of so good an end to so bad a beginning," said Tovalito, shaking his head doubtfully.

"But she can denounce her seducer, which will be some satisfaction," replied Paco Rosales.

"And even if she should, she would not obtain redress," answered Tovalito. "A grandee of Spain is next in rank and power to the King, and is beyond the reach of justice except for high treason. Let the Medina Sidonias beware that they are not convicted of it; for if they are, they may bid adieu to their high sounding titles, their wealth, their pride and their heads."

"Basta!" interrupted Paco, in a half jesting, half serious tone, 66 now that thou art no longer there to aid and abet the conspirators, and convey letters to Portugal, the King, our master, may sleep in peace."

Morning dawned, and the monks began to assemble in the Chapel, when Father Cyrillo commanded Theresa to rise and follow him to the confessional, where she might remain concealed from further observation. The unfortunate young girl seemed to have lost all consciousness of her situation; her strength, her will, her understanding were annihilated. She no longer felt that she lived; she mechanically obeyed the monk. Tova lito had returned to the church, to see what had

become of her, and it was some time before he discovered her in a of niche at the end of a dark chapel. The mendicant, seized with pity and remorse, resolved from that instant to revenge her wrongs and his own. His hatred of Don Alonzo was aggravated by the sight of the young girl's misery to an intense degree, and if he had been behind him at that moment he would have assassinated him on the spot.

Paco Rosales took the road to the town house of Donna Beatrice de Vasconcellos. Nothing else was talked of in Valencia but the sudden and mysterious disappearance of Donna Theresa, who, it was generally supposed, eloped with a lover. All researches for her discovery were fruitless-110 traces of her were found that could possibly lead to a conjecture of where she was, or with whom.

It was still early in the morning. Paco Rosales sat down on a stone bench in front of the house, and waited patiently till some of the servants should make their appearance-for, although not easily embarassed, Paco would not venture to knock at the door of a great house; so he waited humbly aud quietly for a full hour before the door was opened, which it at length did, when Donna Beatrice herself came out, followed by an old footman carrying her prayer book and hassock. She was going to morning prayers at Notre Dame.

The old lady was dressed in deep mourning, as if her daughter were dead. After her flight she had shut up her country house, and returned to town, refusing to see any one, and spending almost her whole time at Church. Don Antonio de Guevara had taken his departure that same night, and joined the army.

Charity! madam," cried Paco, holding out his hat by the force of habit, "I bring you good news, I have seen Donna Theresa walking along the Alameda; she entered the church of the reverend Dominican fathers-to pray, no doubt. The old lady changed colour. "Theresa, my daughter!" cried she, hasten to her."

"let us

flagrant faults. Don Ignacio de Vasconcellos had not been regularly brought up for the Church, nor did he enter it till late in life. He had had his choice, when a young man, of either the cowl or the profession of arms. He choose the latter, and, if certain stories were to be believed of his youthful indiscretions, he had not much to hope for in the next world; but being one day suddenly converted, his sins were forgotten, and he became as much renowned for his austere virtues as he was formerly notorious for his licentious vices. He was one of those exaggerated characters who are never moderate in anything-who are either excessively bad or excessively good. To all outward appearance, he had conquered and subdued all his earthly passions; but his pride, which was still predominant, clung tenaciously to his heart, and ruled his actions, although decently veiled beneath the garb of pious humility. Such was the man whom Donna Beatrice selected to decide upon her daughter's fate. He had arrived the evening before; he had seen the desolation of the family, the tears, the disappointment of the bereaved mother, untouched-almost with indifference; but their dishonoured name, so closely connected with his own, stung him to the quick, and urged him on to seek for retribution and revenge.

When Donna Beatrice, with tears in her eyes, informed him that her daughter was found, a gleam of malignant satisfaction lit up his cold grey eye, and for a moment played upon the thin compressed lips, that were never seen to smile but in sarcastic bitterness.

"It is well, my daughter," replied he quietly, in a sanctified tone; "I rejoice in the return of the lost sheep to the fold; may the penance which the church enjoins lift from her benighted soul the weight of sin that lies heavily upon it, and cleanse her name from the foul stain of dishonour which clouds its brightness! I will myself take care that her penance shall not be overmuch for her youth. But where is she at present, daughter? Art thou quite sure that the lamb has not again strayed beyond our reach ?"

"She was last seen to enter the Dominican Church, Father," replied Douna Beatrice, still weeping bitterly.

"Enough!" cried Don Ignacio, as he hastily arose and left the house.

It was then about eight o'clock in the morning; already a busy and noisy crowd buzzed in the populous quarter of the town where the family mansion of the Vasconcellos was situated. But the beautiful walk of the Alameda was completely deserted, as it usually was at that early hour, unless we except one solitary being, who kept pacing to and fro under the trees. It was Paco Rosales, who was on the watch for Donna Theresa; but perceiving the Canon Don Ignacio approaching, he stepped aside to let him pass, not forgetting, however, to hold out his hat as he did-and then followed him into the church.

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The hour for morning prayers was passed, but a few old women still knelt before the railing of the altar. Tovalito, standing behind a pillar, was observing Theresa with fixed and melancholy attention. She was still seated in the confessional, her head resting upon one hand, whilst the other hung listlessly by her side. Her eyes were wild and haggard, and there was something fearful in the immobility of their vacant gaze, that made one tremble for the life or reason of the unfortunate girl.

The Canon entered the church, and hastily muttering a short prayer, went up to where Theresa was sitting, and standing before her, made her a sign to rise; but she appeared unconscious of his

Theresa obeyed, and, throwing it over her head so as to conceal her face, quietly awaited his further commands.

"Follow me," cried he, in a tone of ill-disguised severity.

The young girl made an effort to advance, but her trembliug limbs sank under her, and to save herself from falling, she involuntarily placed her hand upon Don Ignacio's arm; but he indig nantly shook her off, and she would have fallen to the ground if Tovalito had not rushed forward and caught her in his arms.

"Put your trust in God, and follow me," said the Canon, affecting not to perceive her weakness. Then, leading the way, he walked out of the church; whilst Theresa, weak and faint, slowly and painfully followed in his steps.

Thus was the unfortunate girl made to traverse the suburbs, then the streets of the populous part of the city-the jeer and scoff of every passer by; and when she reached her own neighbourhood where she was recognised, and her story known, the crowd that had gathered to witness her penance and degradation was so dense, that she could with difficuly make her way through it. Here she had to endure every kind of insult; cries of shame, coarse jests, the bitter mockery of affected pity, and even blows from the unthinking children, who looked upon her as some monster of crime, whom it was praiseworthy to hate and illtreat. Silently and patiently she submitted to this kind of moral pillory, but a bright pink spot that burned in the centre of her pale check shewed the internal struggle of her agonised heart. The Canon who had purposely exposed her to this public expiation of her fault, walked on with the proud humility and dignified composure of one who accomplishes a difficult act of courage and resignation. On arriving before the house, he turned round, and said in a loud voice to the assembled crowd, which had pursued them to the very door: "As the crime was public, so should the retribution be public."