The door then opened, and Theresa staggered up the steps and fell on her face into the hall.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself in her mother's room, and throwing herself on her knees before her, whom she still loved with all the warmth of a child's affection, cried: "Mother! dear mother, forgive me!"

But Don Ignacio, stepping between the child and parent, imperiously waved to Donna Beatrice to withdraw, and then turning to the kneeling girl said, in a severe and merciless tone, "Thou hast no longer a mother; no longer any family; the world has condemned thee; turn thy heart to God, pray to him for the consolation which thou hast forfeited in this world, and prepare thyself for thy future destiny. Henceforth thou wilt be dead to all who ever knew thee. Thy penance will be long, for thou art young, and God only calls to himself those whom he loves."

"He will have pity upon me," cried Theresa; "I shall have suffered in this world the pains of eternity; I have erred, but my punishment is almost beyond my endurance."

"I do not want to hear thy confession, or what thou hast but too justly suffered. There is but one thing I wish to know, the name of thy seducer ?"

Theresa was silent.

"His name?" repeated the Canon, "human justice demands human vengeance."

"Vengeance," interrupted Theresa with gloomy ejaculation, "I expect it from God alone. His name shall never pass my lips-I swear it by my eternal salvation."

The Canon, on hearing this solemn vow, lifted up his hands and eyes to Heaven, and in a voice of angry indignation cried, "What! thou refusest to deliver up thy seducer. Thou willest that his crime shall go unpunished, and its infamy fall upon thee alone. Well then, be it so. Thou shalt suffer both his punishment and thine own," added he, rising and quitting the room, the door of which he locked behind him, leaving Theresa alone, crushed and fallen, a prey to her grief and her despair.

When Don Ignacio returned in the evening, he found her crouched in the darkest corner of the room, with her head wrapped in her mantilla, as if she wished to shut out even the light of day.

"Get up," said he, "and change thy garment. The hair-cloth must be thy future raiment, and when thou art ready, follow me"-then leaving the room, he waited outside while she replaced her bridal dress with the hair-cloth gown which he had thrown to her on his entrance. This melancholy habit covered her, but her hair fell like a veil over her shoulders, and covered her naked armis. In this state Theresa followed the Canon to the saloon where the evening before she had appeared the loveliest of the lovely, and the worshipped bride of an adoring lover. From thence they passed on to another room which was never used but on occasions of solemnity. When they

reached the threshold, the young girl drew back with horror. "No, no," cried she, "not there.

I cannot go there."

In that room the whole family of Vasconcellos were assembled. Since the death of the Count, who had lain there in state, it had not been opened but on one occasion, when his widow received the condolences of her friends and relatives. When Thesesa, pale and bewildered, appeared at the door, every eye was directed towards her, and a murmur of disapprobation resounded through the room. The young girl turned to fly, but Don Ignacio grasping her by the arm, forced her to enter.

"Theresa de Vasconcellos," said he, in a loud imperative voice, "before quitting the world for ever, kneel down and ask pardon of thine outraged family for the disgrace thou hast brought upon

their name."

"I ask pardon of God and my mother," faltered she.

Donna Beatrice rose to take her last leave of her daughter, but the Canon pushed her aside, saying, "This weakness is criminal, daughter. The ties that once bound thee to thy child are now loosened by the church, which claims her as its own. Theresa, recommend thyself to the prayers of those who see thy repentance. Thou mayst yet edify the world, and work out thine own salvation by fasting and penance. Heaven opens for repentant sinners, as for those who never throw off their robes of innocence; rise and commence that painful pilgrimage which is to conduct thee to eternity."

"Where would you lead me ?" cried she imploringly, as she sought refuge by her mother's side; "if I am to suffer thus, kill me at once."

Again Don Ignacio approached to separate the terrified girl from Donna Beatrice, to whom she clung with the tenacity of despair, and seizing her by the arms which were clasped around her mother's knees, he tore her violently away, and bore her fainting from the room.

His authority as a priest, and the head of the family, was such as none would presume to question. He therefore met with no opposition in the accomplishment of this severe and cruel punishment. None-not even her mother, dared to ask what he meant to do with the young girl.

As Theresa was borne through the hall, awe and consternation were painted on the countenances of the old domestics, who came to take a farewell look of her who had once been the pride and admiration of their hearts, and when the door closed upon her for ever, they wept for her as for one dead. A carriage drawn by four mules bore her and Don Ignacio rapidly away from Valencia.

Two mendicants watched it till it was out of sight.

"It is Donna Theresa," cried Paco Rosales; "God alone knows what that old bigot is going to do with her. May Heaven have more pity upon her than he will."

CHAPTER IX.

A CONVENT.

THERE was formerly, a few leagues from Madrid, between Aranjuez and Villamanriqua, an ancient convent which appertained to the third order of Saint Francis. From the insalubrity and isolation of its situation, it had long since been deserted by the monks who founded it, and was inhabited by the sisterhood of L'Etroite Observance. Its walls were washed by the Tagus; but the sluggish course of its waters only produced deadly exhalations, pernicious to those who dwelt within reach of their influence, and which annually thinned the population of the convent. Thrown as it was in the midst of the dry and sterile plains of New Castile, none would brave the dangers of its pestilential atmosphere but those unfortunate recluses who were devoted to a life of severe penance and a lingering death. The order of L'Etroite Observance was the strictest in Spain; its three vowschastity, obedience, and poverty were vigorously exacted and observed by the community. The habit was of coarse brown cloth, the same as that worn by the monks of the same order; the nuns wore the sandals, the hempen-cord round their waists, and their long, thick, black veils were fastened on the head by a crown of thorns. Even the Carmelite, which was considered as one of the severest religious orders existing in Catholic countries, was not so strict in its observances as was the third order of Saint Francis. To this convent was Donna Theresa conducted by her uncle, Don Ignacio de Vasconcellos.

At first the unfortunate novice strove to forget the world, and to turn her thoughts to God. She submitted to this life of penitence and privation with patient endurance. She bore its mortifica tions, its cruel, unnatural penances, with fortitude and resignation; she endeavoured to accommodate herself to the dull monotony of conventual life; but at length her strength forsook her, and her mind gave way beneath the weight of her accumulated miseries. She could no longer conquer the rebel thoughts that pursued her-even to the steps of the altar-mingling with her prayers, and haunting her in her dreams. Wherever she

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prived her of her reason. In her despair she would call upon death to end her tortures, and often she would be seized with a horrible temptation to drown herself in the river that flowed beneath the narrow window of her cell. Two years passed thus.

The world had forgotten Donna Theresa; her name was never pronounced in the family of the Vasconcellos; however, it was known at Valencia that she was leading a devout and penitential life in a convent in the neighbourhood of Madrid, and that she had taken the name of sister Frances. Donna Beatrice had survived her daughter's disgrace but a few months; Don Antonio de Guevara was killed in Portugul; the Canon Don Ignacio was also dead.

There were two persons, however, who still remembered Donna Theresa, and often spoke of her. They were Paco Rosales and his friend Tovalito. Paco was still at the little door on the left of Notre Dame de Los Desemparados; but his heart was no longer as light as formerly; he forgot to look at those who passed in and out of the church, or to hold out his hat for charity. The other mendicant was also more thoughtful, and less eager for the broad pieces that were often bestowed upon him unasked, in pity of his mutilated form.

One night, after they had counted out a large bag full of money which they kept concealed under a heap of old rags in the garret where they slept together, Paco Rosales said with a sigh. "Thanks be to God! here is money enough to pay for a fine funeral when we are dead, I don't think we shall enjoy it during our lives. I should not know how to spend so much. Besides, for the two last years I have had a kind of sad forboding hanging over me which makes me feel as if neither of us will want anything much longer."

Thou art grown superstitious. Ever since that night when we witnessed that scene in the Dominican church, thou hast been dull and mopish; not that I wonder at it, for I shall never forget it myself. May the judgment of God light upon the traitor who seduced and abandoned that young girl!"

"Yes, and may He forgive the part that we had in her misfortunes. We should have allowed Don Alonzo to marry her!" "It was a left-handed marriage; sooner or later he would have abandoned her."

Tovalito put his hand significantly to his dagger and said in an under tone: "my conscience will never be at rest till I have revenged her wrongs and my own."

"What! dost thou expect to meet with such another opportunity for thy vengeance? If thou hadst struck when thou shouldst, Donna Theresa's marriage with Don Guevara would not have been prevented, and Don Antonio would long since have gone to his last account."

"Thou art in the right, but God alone knew what was going to happen!"

A few days after this conversation, the two mendicants assumed the pilgrim's staff and wide brimmed hat, and, to the great edification of the fraternity, announced their intention of making a pilgrimage to Notre Dame de Guadaloupe, and then took their departure in an humble vehicle that they might avoid exciting the cupidity of the gentlemen of the highway, who then infested, as they do to this day, the public roads of Spain; nevertheless they carried more money concealed about their persons than many a one who made a greater figure than themselves, and from whom they demanded charity. Thus did they traverse La Mancha, a part of New Castile, and at length arrived one fine morning in the month of April in the neighbourhood of Villamanriqua.

Paco Rosales who had all his life frequented the churches felt no embarassment at presenting himself at the convent of L'Etroite Observance; but as the recluses who inhabited it held no communication with the world, they never received, as was the custom elsewhere, the visits of the pilgrims and devotees, who go in crowds to the gratings to purchase beads and relics, and recount the news of the day. Their almoner was an old capuchin friar, who came every morning from a great distance to perform divine service for them; they had also another holy personage, their direc tor, whose severity maintained strict discipline amongst the flock confided to his care.

Paco Rosales commenced, according to his old and laudable custom, by asking charity at the gate of the convent. Then, as his lamentable supplications remained unanswered, he humbly pulled the bell, in about a quarter of an hour, the withered face of an old nun was seen at the wicket and again hastily withdrawn at sight of a man.

Not another living creature appeared to inhabit this gloomy abode, whose time-blackened walls cast their shadows over the quiet river. A death like silence reigned around it, and the moanings of the wind, and the murmurings of the water, were the only echoes of this solitude.

"Let us be gone," said Paco Rosales, with a sigh, "we are not likely to get our supper in such a place as this!"

CHAPTER X.

THE NUNS.

THE next morning, our two mendicants returned at the hour of prayer, which they wished to attend before they again set out on their pilgrimage. The church door was open according to custom. The

priest was at the altar, but there was not a single assistant in the nave. Paco and his companion went and knelt before the great altar. From thence they saw, through the grating of the chancel, the nuns covered by their black veils, and heard the vague accents of their voices which united in the same prayer. Whilst they were thus engaged looking at the nuns, and repeating their orisons, an indistinct form slowly advanced from the other side of the grating, and a delicate white hand rested on the iron bar between them.

The

"It is she, herself!" whispered Tovalito. In fact it was Theresa, who, seeing and recognising the mendicants, had risen by a sudden impulse of surprise, and again sank on her knees, where she remained with her face buried in her hands, in an attitude of deep meditation. sight of these two men had awakened all her recollections of the past. In a moment she was transported back to the home of her childhood, to the side of her mother. Again she was the happy, fondled girl; the pride and hope of her family. Again she stood in the gay and brilliant saloon, where she shone the fairest, the brightest of its circle. Once more she heard the melting accents, the imploring tenderness of her lover's voice in the fragrant orange-grove, when he bore her, fainting, from the garden. Then the distant church stocd before her in almost tangible distinctness. The altar where she knelt a hopeful bride-the funereal chapel, the dead monk, the living priest, the armed men, and haughty duke; her lover's perjury, her own despair; all passed in review before her, and the pulses of her deadened heart throbbed quicker, and the blood returned to her pale cheek, lighting up her languid eyes with unnatural brightness, and giving to her whole countenance that expression of the wild and feverish energy of a sudden and desperate resolution.

When the service was ended, Theresa arose from her knees, and for an instant stood looking through the iron grating in the direction of the high altar, but the pilgrims had already taken their departure, and the church was empty. She turned away in evident disappointment, and regained her cell.

From this day a change came over the young girl. Not, however, in appearance, for the rules of the order were too strict to admit of the slightest deviation from its religious observances; but her mind, although subdued by long mental suffering and severe monastic discipline, suddenly awakened from its torpor to renewed life and strength. Pre-occupied by one fixed idea, she no longer felt the miserable privations, nor the harsh panances, and cruel trials of her conventual life. She lived in a world of her own imagining, and the terrible reality became a vision—a mere dream, to be cast from her mind and forgotten the instant of her emancipation from its painful trammels.

The convent bell had tolled the hour of midnight, the nuns were asleep in their narrow cells, and all around was hushed in the deep silence of night. One solitary lamp burnt before the high altar, and threw its dull, glimmering rays around the sanctuary, dimly lighting up the marble statues of the saints in their niches, and the dark figures of the apostles and martyrs in the great altarpiece. The rest of the chapel was in deep obscurity, except where the lantern of the superintendant nun, who was going her rounds, danced, like the ignis fatuus, through the aisles, and along the walls, till it was lost in the distant cloisters of the nunnery. Suddenly a stifled scream resounded through the arches, and immediately afterwards a white form glided from behind the pillars, and entered the chancel, where it immediately afterwards disappeared.

A few hours later the last stroke of the bell sounded for matins; all the doors of the cells in the great dormitory were open, except one-sister Frances's. The superintendent, thinking she was not yet risen, knocked at her door, but receiving no answer she opened it with her own key, and entered the cell. It was empty, the lamp still burning on the hearth. Surprised and alarmed, she instantly rang the alarm bell, and in a moment the whole of the sisterhood, with the Prioress at their head, assembled in the passage leading to the cell of the missing nun, which the Prioress and superintendent alone entered. The window stood wide open, a pair of sandals lay on the floor beneath, and a silver rosary hung from a nail in the wall above them. The two nuns approached the casement, and looked out—a black veil caught by a branch of a tree which overhung the river floated in the air.

The Prioress recoiled in horror, and throwing herself upon her knees, cried to the surrounding nuns :-"Daughters, sister Frances has drowned herself. Let us pray for her unfortunate soul."

CHAPTER XI.

ARANJUEZ.

A YOUNG girl, alone, and on foot, traversed the wild and incult plains of New Castile. Carefully avoiding the high-roads and public paths, she pursued her course across the fields, and through the by-ways along the Tagus, never resting but by day, when she would stretch her weary limbs beneath the shade of the wide-spreading branches of some large trees that grew on the banks of the river.

One morning, exhausted by the fatigues of her painful and difficult journey, the young girl vainly endeavoured to arouse herself in order to resume her travels before sunrise. The dead, heavy sleep of worn-out nature weighed down her swollen eyelids, and steeped her senses in a deep lethargic slumber. The sun rose high in the heavens; a

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slight refreshing breeze stirred the branches of the trees, and fanned the sleep of the tired wayfarer. The wood was peopled with wild animals; the nimble deer bounded through the thickets; the stags ranged the banks of the river, and watched, with instinctive mistrust, from afar, the half-concealed form of the recumbent sleeper.

Several hours had passed, and she had not yet stirred, when she was suddenly awakened by the furious barking of some dogs that had made their way into the copse where she was. An involuntary scream escaped from her as she sat up and gazed fearfully around her. At the same instant a party of cavaliers appeared, followed by numerous grooms and huntsmen. At sight of the young girl, pale and with dishevelled hair, like some phantom of the wood, they all stopped.

"By Santiago!" cried one of the hunters, "who is this beautiful Madaleine, and since when has she chosen the valley of Aranjuez for her hermitage ?"

"Signor," cried the poor pedestrian, as she timidly approached the speaker, who appeared to be the principal personage of the troop; "Signor, for the sake of God deign to protect

me!"

"Fear nothing, my child; you have not fallen amidst a band of robbers; we are all as honest people as any to be found in the world."

He who thus spoke was a young man with an intelligent and goodnatured countenance. Without being regularly handsome, his face, which was exceedingly fair, was soft and pleasing; his light hair fell in luxurious ringlets from beneath his hat, which was ornamented with a single black feather. He was dressed in a plain black velvet doublet, with close fitting sleeves, and a broad red ribbon crossed his breast.

The girl, reassured by these words, cast a furtive and timid glance around the circle that surrounded her. Every eye was fixed upon her with a singular expression of astonishment and curiosity, the sight of which instantly sent the blood rushing to her pale cheeks, and made her turn away from their rude gaze with a gesture of such genuine and touching entreaty, that the cavalier immediately cried out,

"Withdraw, gentlemen, retire a little distance; ye frighten this young girl."

The hunters immediately drew back to the border of the river. At this distance they could see what passed between the girl and her unknown protector, although they could not overhear what they said.

"By my cross of Calatrava!" said one of them, "that woman has come back from the other world. She looks like the bride of the Moorish king, coming out of the castle, where she had slept for an hundred years."

"Her dress may be an hundred years old, if you will," replied auother, "but her face does not look more than eighteen. How beautiful she is!"

In the meantime the cavalier, left alone with the young girl, after examining her with ill-disguised admiration and interest, began to question her.

"Who art thou, my child; and how comes it that thou art here alone in this wild place, so distant from any habitation, and in a dress so unsuitable for a journey on foot?"

This interrogation, simple and natural as it was, seemed to embarrass the young girl; for she coloured deeply, and looked down without making any reply.

"Well," resumed he, "thou dost hesitate; thou darest not confide in me? But make thy mind easy, I only ask these questions for thine own good. I wish to serve thee. Come, tell me who thou art, and where thou art going?" Signor," replied she, "I have fled from my

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home."

"Alone ?" interrupted the cavalier.

'Yes, Signor, alone. Where I am going, I know not; there is but one place for me in the world, and that I have left."

"And why, my poor child, hast thou thus abandoned thy home?"

Signor, I quitted it because I could no longer rest in it; because I made a vow which I must fulfil, even at the cost of my life."

Singular being," murmured the cavalier, interrupting her. "But dost thou not know that a thousand dangers beset thee in the world ?" added he aloud; "thy youth and beauty will expose thee to perils of which thou, in thy simplicity and innocence, little dreamest. Take my advice-return to thy family."

"Oh!' cried the young girl dismayed, and dropping on her knees, "You are the king. Your pardon, sire !"

"Rise, damsel," said he, kindly; "thou hast given me no offence. We will consider in what manner we can best provide for thee."

After a few minutes silence, during which the king contemplated with secret admiration the rare and surpassing beauty of the young creature before him, than whom he could not remember to have seen any one half so lovely; not even the Caiderona herself, whom he had so much loved, was to be compared with her for the regularity of her features, and the transparent whiteness of her skin, he resumed with a benevolent, though slightly ironical smile

"Well, under what title must we present thee at court ?"

"Alas! sire," replied she, abashed, ard colouring, "I am a poor girl, who have never looked so high."

"I don't know that! Thou hast not the appearance of one humbly born, fair maiden. Wilt thou not tell me who thou art ?"

"My name, sire, is Louisa. Ask me no more, I entreat your majesty. I am under a vow to conceal the rest."

It would be a strange fact in our time; but at that epoch, and particularly in Spain, vows were of common occurrence. They were made on the most trifling occasions, and frequently for motives of anything but religious tendency. But whatever they might be, they were always scrupulously accomplished. The king, therefore, shook his head, and said with a half smile,

"Thou didst set out on a pilgrimage, perhaps? But thou didst not reflect upon the dangers of the way. Young girls run great risks in such enterprises. Dost thou know any one at Madrid ?" "No one, Sire,"

"Then I must protect thee," said the king; remain here, and I will presently send a trustworthy person, who will conduct thee to a place of safety, till thou shalt have made up thy mind what to do."

husband."

Having thus spoken, the king gave her his hand, and then putting spurs to his horse, disappeared through the brushwood. The young girl remained alone, transfixed with astonishment at this strange occurrence, which, now that it was passed, she could hardly believe was real.

He

"My God!" murmured she, "I have spoken to the king. He has promised me his protection. Can it be? or is it only a dream! But no, no, it is providential interference in my behalf! has heard my prayer at last! I shall accomplish what I alone have lived for! Oh!" cried she, covering her face with her hands, as if she would hide her thoughts even from the dumb animals of the wood, whilst the scalding tears flowed through her slender fingers,-"Oh! my God, I thank thee!"

Whilst she was thus abandoning herself to her