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 bigh 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 another, "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 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."

"No, Signor, never! You know not the punishment I should suffer.

"But thou shouldst not return alone; I myself would accompany thee, and obtain thy pardon." You could not obtain it, Signor."

"And yet I have no little influence-I may say, power."

"Were you the king himself," interrupted she, "you could not save me from a terrible punishment. Signor, I thank you for so much kindness; but I beseech you not to persist in serving me in this way I am dead to those I have abandoned !" "Will you enter a convent ?" said the cavalier, after a moment's reflection.

"No, Signor," said she firmly.

"Well, then, I see no other means of serving thee, but by giving thee a marriage portion and a husband."

The young girl coloured deeply at these words, and replied with sudden energy:

"I will never marry, Signor; the love of man is not for me. But if, indeed, you would do me a service, you have perhaps a sister-a wife; place me near them. I will wait upon-work for them."

The cavalier smiled at this request. "Yes," said he, "but to enter the service of my wife or sister, thou must show proof of noble blood,-thou must be a grandee of Spain."

"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 enter prises. 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 trust worthy person, who will conduct thee to a place of safety, till thou shalt have made up thy min what to do."

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

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

Whilst she was thus abandoning herself to h

CHAPTER XII.

MADRID.

THE young girl, faint and tired, sunk into a corner of the carriage. The two female attendants took their seats opposite her, and they drove off. The road from Aranjuez to Madrid was long, dusty, and wearisome. Nevertheless, it was crowded with people who were all bound for the same place; some in carriages, and others on horseback, many of them wearing the king's livery. Ministers, ambassadors, and elegant cavaliers, with their suites of pages, grooms, and valets, passed our youthful traveller on their way to the great city.

"Santa Maria! one would think there was some grand procession to-day, there is such a motley crowd on the roads of Aranjuez," said one of the duennas, putting her head out of the window on her side.

"All these people are returning from the CountDuke's levee," replied the other; "the greatest signor in Spain thinks it an honour to pay court to him. He is more king than the king himself."

"In his late majesty's reign the grandees did not thus haunt the ante-chamber of the Prime Minister. See, there goes the Duke of Arcos, with his attendants; he has not been of the king's hunting party, neither has the Marquis of Penafiel, nor the Count de Montollano, nor a great many others, who are only to be seen in the apartments of the Count-Duke. Even the Medina Sidonias are amongst his most assiduous courtiers."

At the sound of this name the stranger, who had appeared to be asleep, started, and turning deadly pale, asked in a voice, tremulous with deep emotion, "If the Duke de Sidonia was at

the court ?"

"Yes, madam; the Duke seldom leaves the state, where he rules like a viceroy; and more absolutely -God pardon me-than the king himself. His son, Don Alonzo de Guzman, is also at the court; but he arrived only a few days ago, on account of his marriage."

"Married, is he?" interrupted the girl, making an effort to smile.

"No, madam; but he soon will be, for there are grand preparations making for the wedding." "And pray, who is the noble lady destined to wear the ducal coronet of the Sidonias ?"

"The richest heiress in the kingdom-Donna Maria de Giron, the only daughter of the Duke d'Ossuna. It is said that there is to be a splendid ball given on the occasion, to which the whole

"I have seen the preparations, which are on a magnificent scale," said the other duenna; "the splendours of ancient chivalry are not to be compared to them. Don Alonzo every day invents some new gallantry for his betrothed."

He is then much in love with her ?" asked the maiden in an agitated voice.

"He has done that for her sake which proves it. It is said that he rode all the way from Seville to Madrid, merely to see her on her balcony at the last auto de fé, and returned again the same evening," answered the duenna.

"Alas!" murmured she, and again sunk back without once speaking till the carriage arrived at Madrid, and stopped at the door of a small but cheerful house, situated in one of the most private walks of the Prado.

"You are at home, madam," said one of the duennas, as she assisted the young girl to alight, and then, leading the way into the house, she showed her up stairs to a room elegantly and tastefully furnished. With a timid glance of surprise and admiration at the magnificence which surrounded her, Louisa (as we must now call her) followed her conductress from that to an inner apartment. Here everything bespoke the late presence of some soft luxurious beauty, whose only occupation was that of love and pleasure, and only cares those of the toilet. Its walls were hung with pale pink satin, fluted from the top to the bottom, where it terminated with a rich border of embossed silver. Rare paintings, in costly gilt frames, ornamented the spaces over the doors and the mantelpiece. The carpet, which covered the room, was of rich white velvet ground, bordered with wreaths of flowers, whilst in its centre was a basket of fruit, exquisitely painted, and tastefully grouped. The chairs were white and gold, and ranged in regular order round the room, not dispersed as they are in these days in the studied confusion of an upholsterer's wareroom. A centretable, of lapis-lazuli, mounted in ormulu, stood in the middle of the apartment, and close by it were two easy chairs, also mounted in gold, and covered with white satin, embroidered in coloured silks. Before one of the windows, which opened out upon a verandah filled with flowers, was a toilettable covered, to match the hangings, with pink satin, over which was thrown a point-lace coverlet. A circular looking-glass, set in filigree silver, surmounted this, and on each side of the mirror were chandeliers filled with wax tapers, that shed a perfume and a softened light through this elegant and luxurious apartment.

To this table was the young stranger conducted by the duenna; but recoiling from it in dismay, Louisa at first refused to take her seat before it.

"This is not prepared for me," said she. "Whose room is it? who lives in this house ?"

Only yourself, madam. It was inhabited by Donna Clara Calderon."

"And who is that lady? does she belong to the court ?"

"No, madam," replied the duenna, with a strange smile; "she was a beautiful person, whom the king once loved."

'Indeed; and she being a subject he could not marry her, and which obliged them to forget each other, I suppose ?" said the young girl, with ingenuous compassion.

The same peculiar smile again crossed the features of the duenna.

"No, madam, not quite that; but the king discovered that he had a rival, and in his anger he shut her up in a convent."

As this reply was rather ambiguous, Louisa put her own innocent construction upon it, and suffered herself in silence to be disrobed, when she retired to her silken couch, and soon fell into a deep refreshing slumber.

A little before daybreak she suddenly started and sat up; she fancied that she heard the convent bell ring for matins, and she was on the point of rising to join the other nuns in the chancel, when the rich hangings of her bed, and its silken coverlet, caught her eye, and recalled her to a sense of the reality.

The duenna who slept at her feet, aroused by the scream she gave when she awoke, asked her if there was anything the matter with her.

"Yes," replied she, "I have had a bad dream." Compose yourself, madam. It is the effects of your long fatiguing journey."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE PRADO.

ABOUT fifteen days later, Paco Rosales and his friend Tovalito were to be seen parading up and down the fashionable walk of the Prado. It was not then, as it is now, wide and regularly planted on each side; but straggling, uneven, and broken, with here and there a few trees growing at irregu lar distances, having been planted without regard to order or picturesqueness. The two mendicants, fatigued with walking, had seated themselves in the most retired part of the Prado, opposite a house whose red roof was partly concealed by the thick foliage of the sycamores in which it was embosomed.

"The city of Madrid pleases me," said Paco Rosales, "it has so many resources for rich people, and if you were of my mind, friend Tovalito, we would spend the remainder of our lives in it."

"Be it so, then," replied Tovalito, "let us stay here; it matters but little to me where I drag on my miserable life with this mutilated body, which is so much the envy of those of our fraternity whose infirmities are artificial."

"Yes, thou hast a great advantage over them there," answered Paco Rosales, gravely; "thou shouldst endeavour to profit more by it, and, above all, follow thy trade with a stouter heart."

Tovalito shook his head at this, and Paco resumed

Come, what is it thou dost want for? Do we not enjoy all the profits of our calling? Have we not enough to cat and drink, aye, and more too than we want. I allow that wealth and honours are not showered upon us; people do not take off their hats when we pass; we do not wear the feather over our ear, nor the sword by our sides; the young girls do not peep at us from behind their fans; but we do not want for the comforts of this life, nor a few of its pleasures? Are we not exempt from all employments, labour, and anxiety? And have we not the wherewithal to bury us when we are dead? Hurrah, then, for the life of a mendicant! I would not change my condition with the canon of San Isidio."

"Thou mayest well be happy; thou hast neither remorse nor hatred in thy heart," replied Tovalito, gloomily. "Thou hast no thirst for revenge!"

"By Saint André !" answered Paco Rosales, "such feelings only lead to a bad end. The aim of thy revenge is too high for thee ever to attain it."

"Who knows that ?" said Tovalito, putting his hand to his belt-not that he felt for his dagger bnt for some papers which he kept concealed beneath the broad leather girdle round his waist,

“And thou dost still hope to make some grand stroke with those papers ?" said Paco; "but thon shouldst first make out their contents; now, since neither thou nor I know a single letter of the alphabet, we might look for an hundred years all those fly-blots and hair-strokes, without making out one word of them; it was not worth thy whil to charge thy conscience with such a theft."

"As for that, friend Paco, my conscience won' keep me awake. I knew the man who had thes papers in his bosom; he was a grey friar, whe like myself, carried letters and messages to Lisbo at the time when the Medina Sidonias conspire against the King our master."

"But all that is past," interrupted Paco R sales, "I understand nothing of State affairs-ap I care as little for them; but it appears to that if the Duke de Medina Sidonia plotted rebe lion, he would not have sent his son to Madri to espouse the Duchess of Ossuna.”

A fine proof, truly, of his allegiance; to for an alliance which will render them masters of t two most considerable towns of Andalusia. It thee what, Paco, I have my own surmises. T monk whom we met at Notre Dame de Guadalou with these letters came from Madrid.”

"Dost thou think he would contiuue his jo ney after having lost them on the way?" int rupted Paco.

"No, certainly; for if he were discovered, 1 gown would not save him, and his cord of Sa Francois might serve to hang him.”

But who can we trust to decipher the papers ?"

We will see," said Tovalito.