He turned, and beheld standing before him a tall
figure, wrapped to the mouth in a large gray mantle,
like the haick worn by the Moors, which swept the
ground, its head nearly buried in a deep cowl, through
which glared upon him a pair of glittering eyes, like
the burning orbs of a tigress shining in the dark.

“Sathanas! avoid thee!” he cried, lifting between
himself and the object of his superstitious fear the ruby
cross that hung from his neck.

There was no reply, no voice, no movement from
the mysterious being, who had appeared, as if by supernatural
power, in the very midst of his tent, though
surrounded by a triple guard. There was no answer,
but the steady, fixed, and burning glance, that seemed
to scorch his soul. His own fearless eye quailed as
he strove to return the look; his face became pale, and,
clasping his daughter by the arm, he seemed, for a moment,
as if he would sink into the ground. His fear
was too great and unnatural to be caused wholly by the
supposition that his challenge had been replied to by

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

the fiend himself. It was, from his looks, evidently
connected with some recognition of, or association
with, the figure.

“Father, my father!” cried the noble girl—who had
no dark and secret crime to answer for, and to whom
innocence gave courage—on witnessing his mental
terror, “be thyself. It is mortal like thyself.”

“Dost thou believe it, child?” he asked, with incredulous
alarm, in a low tone, covering his eyes with his
hands.

“Fear it not: my father, what dreadful thing hath
come over thee?”

“Hath it spoken?” he asked, with terror, without
noticing her words.

“Nay, I will make it speak,” she cried, resolutely.
“'Tis fearful to see thee tremble so like a woman.
Surely Heaven hath suddenly taken from thee thy soldierly
spirit! I will relieve thee or die.”

She seized, as she spoke, the naked sword that lay
upon the escritoire, and, quicker than thought, levelled
it at the heart of the silent and fearful intruder.

“Speak, mysterious being!” she cried, with a sudden
and fearless intrepidity, her soul armed by her father's
pitiable state; “speak! or this steel shall prove whether
thou be flesh or spirit.”

There was no movement of the silent lips; the eyes
were fixed still upon the trembling Condé like a withering
charm.

“Nay, then, if thou art flesh, I will make a spirit of
thee,” she said, and threw herself forward with the
sword; but it struck ringing upon a vest of mail, and
shivered in her grasp. The sound instantly roused
the count from his torpor of fear. Beneath a steel
corslet he knew must beat a mortal heart; and, if hitherto
he had believed he had seen a spirit, all his fear
now at once forsook him, and the stern man and daring
soldier returned.

“Ho, treason! we are beset!” he shouted, drawing
a short dagger from his bosom, and assuming the attitude
of one prepared for attack or defence. “Ho,
guards without there!”

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

“Spare thy voice, Count of Osma,” said the individual,
with irony; “it will scarce be heeded by those
who permitted me to enter thy tent.”

“Ho, Sulem! Moor! Ha, am I betrayed? Who
art thou? Who hath admitted thee?”

“My own power. Who I am thou wilt know in the
day when they cup of guilt shall be full!” was the stern
and menacing answer.

“What would you with me?” he cried, turning pale
and dropping the point of his dagger, yet looking as if
he would shrink from an interview which he felt he
could not avoid.

“Thou art not alone.”

“Nay, 'tis but my child.”

“Wilt thou, then, I should speak with thee before
her?” asked the stranger, with a significant sneer,
concluding the words with a low laugh that chilled his
blood.

“Lil, leave me,” he said, with an assumed indifference
of tone, observing her look from one to the other
with suspicion and alarm; “I have business with this
stranger, that, it is hinted, will not be fitting for a third
ear. Seek thy couch, and court the sleep that hath
been so untimely chased from thy pillow.”

“Nay, I will stay with thee. I will not leave
thee,” she said, firmly. “Thou wilt speak to the father
in the daughter's presence?” she added, addressing
the extraordinary intruder.

“If the father will,” answered the same cold and
mocking voice.

“It may not be, child,” he said, sternly. “If afterward
it prove of moment or interest to thee, thou shalt
hear it. Leave me.”

The imperative command conveyed in the last words
she felt it would be dangerous to disobey; so, embracing
him, and whispering in his ear a prayer for the victims
of the morrow, she cast a glance of mingled dread and
curiosity upon the silent figure, and retired within the
tent.

For an instant after her departure the Condé kept
his gaze fixed upon the place where she had vanished,

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

as if fearful to turn and encounter again the power of
that eye which had frozen his blood.

“We are well met, Garcia of Osma,” at length said
the stranger, taking a stride towards him, and placing
a brown, skinny finger upon his wrist.

“Who art thou?” he cried, shrinking from the
touch, “that intrudest at midnight into my tent, and
seekest to alarm my fears with dark words and darker
hints?”

“Thou wilt not know me if I utter the name men
like thee know me by. Thou wilt not know me if I
let thee look upon my features.”

“Who art thou, then, in Heaven's name?”

“Thou didst but now believe me to be the shade of
Don Louis Ramarez, thine elder brother, whom thou
last saw in such a garb!”

“Dost read my thoughts—dost know that deed?” he
cried, in amazement, and with a look of guilty horror.
“Fiend! thou art come from hell to mock me!”

“Nay, Don Garcia, it matters not whence I come.
It is enough if thou acknowledgest my power over
thee; for I have a request to make thou wilt scarce
grant without first fearing me.”

“What wouldst thou have? my soul, dread being?”
he asked, shuddering.

“Nay, but I would control thy guilty mind, and
make it the obedient slave of my will,” was the cool
reply.

“Thou do it!” he repeated, roused by the words to
his former haughty pride and self-possession, and forgetting
his fears in his quick indignation; “thou control
the mind of Garcia of Osma! It should not bend
to the will of Lucifer. By the rood! thou art an impostor,
who hath raked up a buried rumour, and comest
hither to fling it in my ears to frighten me withal!”

“And how did I come hither?” repeated the stranger,
in a quiet tone.

“That is the greatest wonder, and my tent thus
guarded! Ho, Sulem, slave!”

“The Moor hath done his duty, and still lieth with
his huge body across thy tent door.”

[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]

“How passed you him, and how that triple guard?”

“By my power.”

The count trembled.

“Art thou supernatural, and is thine errand here
for good or evil?”

“Both for good and evil. Wilt thou acknowledge
my power, proud Spaniard?”

The Condé paced the floor with a bent brow, and
hurried, uncertain step for a few seconds, and then,
looking up, said with firmness,

“I know not thy purpose nor who thou art. Thou
hast appeared before me mysteriously, and outmastered
the sleepless watchfulness of Sulem. Thou hast
shown, too, a knowledge of a secret I thought deposited
in only two bosoms, and thou hast guessed the
thought of my fear when first I beheld thee, enwrapped
in that gray garment, which hath associations, I need
not tell thee, who already knowest so much, I would
not willingly recall. All this is marvellous, and may
be accounted for on natural grounds, and referred to
mortal causes; therefore, most mysterious being, ere
thou canst subdue my spirit to thine, thou must show
deeper knowledge than thou hast done. Thus far I
acknowledge thy wonderful power. Yet it can be
measured by the human mind, and its depths fathomed.
There is one secret of my life, if thou canst tell it, I
will confess thee more than mortal. If thou failest to
do it, thou shalt be cut to pieces for the secret thou
already hast.” The Count of Osma spoke like a man
whom guilt and fear had rendered desperate, and as if
determined to stake all upon a final cast.

“That secret hath a key.”

“Name it.”

“It is the signet by which I passed your guard, and
led captive the will of the submissive Moor.”

Speaking these words, this extraordinary individual
stretched forth a dark, shrivelled arm, from which the
robe had fallen, showing, to his infinite surprise, the
form and garb of a female beneath, and on the finger
of the hand exhibited to his eye a private signet set

[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]

in a peculiar fashion, and bearing the arms of the
house of Osma, with a Moor's turban for a crest.

He gazed upon it for an instant with starting eyeballs,
and then, leaping forward and grasping the finger
that bore it with a convulsive hold, surveyed it closely,
with an intensity of astonishment and despair that
language cannot depict. Suddenly he touched a concealed
spring in it, and his own miniature, taken in
youth, met his eyes. He looked up then into the face
of the other, and cried, gasping,

“The name—the name—if thou knowest the
name—”

“Zillah!” she answered, in the deep, guttural voice
that distinguished her.

“Thou hast conquered! Do with me what thou
wilt,” he said, and sank down into his state-chair nearly
lifeless.

The singular being who had shown such wonderful
power over the mind of the boldest and fiercest man
of the age, save that secret guilt and the superstition
of the times enslaved his soul, gazed upon him for a
few moments with a look of triumph mingled with
pity. Then, lifting her eyes heavenward, and crossing
her hands upon her bosom, she said, fervently,

“Now Allah be praised! He hath given my greatest
enemy into my hands!”

Her cowl fell back in this extraordinary act of devotion,
and the lamp cast its rays upon a harsh and
haggard countenance, with a broad yellow forehead
impressed with innumerable minute lines of age;
shaggy white hair, a high, prominent nose, and a
mouth with a nervous strength and stern fierceness of
expression, that gave indication of a wild, implacable
spirit, that knew no master save its own will. Beneath
thick, shaggy brows, which time had whitened, glared
a pair of fiery, bloodshot eyes, like globes of heated
iron; and so unearthly was their piercing lustre that
no human eye could encounter them unblenchingly.
Their expression was that of wakeful vengeance, of
watchful suspicion, and of implacable hatred, which

[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]

the act she was for the instant engaged in did not diminish:
it seemed to have been superinduced by some
circumstances of an extraordinary nature, rather than
originally to have belonged to her character, as if deep
wrong, and deferred but ever-sought retribution, had
given to this feature the expression of the passion that
filled her soul. Her hair was white as wool, and,
contrasting strangely with her dark countenance, fell
down over her breast and back in long shining strands,
that gave a singular aspect to her features and majesty
to her person.

When she had ended her brief orison of gratitude,
she dropped the entire robe, and displayed a singularly
thin figure, erect as an arrow, above six feet in height,
and slender as a skeleton. A short tunic of blue cotton,
a green petticoat, a corsage of yellow silk, and
sandals bound upon naked feet, completed her costume.
Her arms were bare and long, and adorned
with broad bracelets of solid brass. Her haggard
neck was encircled by several necklaces of coral and
ebony, to which were appended divers charms and
amulets, one of which, in the shape of a tortoise, was
remarkable for being composed of a single amethyst
of great size and beauty. In her right hand she carried
a small black wand, covered with cabalistic signs
and letters, done in pearl, and ornamented at one end
with a miniature death's head carved from human
bone. At her waist, in a broad blue girdle, on which
were represented, in brilliant colours, the signs of the
zodiac, she wore a long, sharp knife, and a pair of those
small but highly-finished Algerine pistols so celebrated
at that period. From within the folds of her vest appeared
the shining surface of the polished steel corslet
which had resisted the sword of the Condé's spirited
daughter, and which she doubtless found it necessary
to wear in the mode of life she chose to lead.
It will be seen, from this description, that she was no
spirit or supernatural being, and, from what had hitherto
passed between her and the Count of Osma, that
her power was a moral one, and had for its basis her

[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]

knowledge, which he now believed to be supernatural,
of certain crimes he had committed, and which he had
thought were known only to Heaven and himself, and
perhaps his slave and confidant Sulem. From the
character of the ornaments of her person, she appeared
to be a chief or priestess of that class of Morisco
necromancers, or worshippers of the Prince of the
Air, who once held such influence over the minds of
the Orientalists, and by their deep sagacity and cunning,
and through their knowledge of men's hearts
and intimate acquaintance with the avenues to their
passions, exerted an influence over even kings and
emperors, enslaving their minds, and receiving the
homage of their souls and the services of their bodies.
But, whatever might be her profession, her power in
the present instance was acknowledged by the object
of it.

If the Count of Osma had reason to believe her to
be a being of another world on account of her knowledge,
he had now, in her present wild and singular
dress as a sorceress, in the extraordinary height and
exility of her remarkably attenuated person, in the
wildness of her air and aspect, and the enthusiastic
malignity of her countenance, which seemed in himself
to have found its object, additional reason to look
upon her with dread and evil apprehension. Like
most Roman Catholics of that day, Garcia Ramarez
was superstitious. He firmly believed, as an article
of his faith, in the infinitude of saints and guardian
angels that mingled familiarly in human affairs, as
well as in troops of evil spirits that went to and fro in
the earth working ill to mankind. The belief in supernatural
agency was rife in the early part of the
last century, and even down to this time, few men,
however elevated their intellects or brave their hearts,
were above its influence. Miracles increased in the
Romish Church, and spirits, both of good and of evil,
were made to appear to the eyes of the people at will,
for the growth and quickening of their faith; menacing
apparitions were said to have made nightly visits

[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]

to the couches of wicked kings and cruel lords; while
witches or soceresses, wizards or necromancers, as
England, the south of Europe, or Africa were the
scenes of their work, left mankind little room for rational
judgment, and witchcraft and enchantment,
spells and charms, almost subverted the moral law of
nature. The world itself seemed to lie under a
charm, and the enchanted days of the Persian tales to
have returned. In Great Britain, her colonies, and
other Protestant countries, many a supposed witch
paid the forfeit of her life at the stake; but in Spain
and the south of Europe, as well as in Barbary and
Morocco, where their numbers were far more numerous,
and their pretensions and acts more daring and
marvellous, they were too much feared to be prosecuted,
and habitual religious superstition soon taught
men to convert fear into downright awe. The wand
of these charmers had been broken in England and
America nearly half a century before Spain and the
south of Europe had thrown off their allegiance to
this so wonderful and mysterious a power, which, real
or feigned on the part of its agents, will remain for
ever one of the most extraordinary characteristics of
the century in which it appeared, and stand in all ages
a witness to the darkness of the human intellect, the
nothingness of human learning, and the foolishness of
human wisdom.

Such being the preparation of the mind of a man of
that age for supernatural events, it is not surprising
that the bold yet superstitious Count of Osma should at
first have looked upon his visitant, who seemed to wear
the garb and height of one he believed to be in his grave,
as a visitant from the unseen world; or, when she told
him all that ever he did, he should so readily admit her
spiritual agency, nor wonder, as a man of the present
age would do, that such a thing should be. Now, sober
reason and cooler judgment hold the balance of men's
minds, and all things, however extraordinary the aspect
in which they show themselves, however high may appear
their claim to the supernatural, must be tested by

[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]

the even weights of probability, and measured by the
skeptic eye of cause and necessity, ere the claims be
admitted and their empire fully acknowledged. Shakspeare,
writing in this age, would have some other
point d'appui on which to frame his story of Hamlet
than his father's ghost.

The mind of the Count of Osma bowed to the power
that he believed to be supernatural. He was awed by
her knowledge, and his soul shook with the guilty
apprehensions with which awakened memory filled his
bosom. She continued to gaze upon him with mingled
hatred and contempt for a few moments as he sat in
his chair, his head sunk upon his breast, and his forehead
covered by his hand, and then addressed him in
a voice of triumphant scorn, as if she would use the
power she saw she possessed by her secret to its utmost
extent. As he gazed upon her, he thought of the fearful
visit Brutus had received, and the words “I am thy
evil genius, Brutus,” came to his mind, as she said, in
a deep, warning voice,

“Garcia Ramarez, I said we were well met. I
have prayed Allah sixteen long years for this hour, and
it has come. I see thee at my feet, writhing with
guilt and trembling with fear. It is thus thou shouldst
be before those whom thou hast wronged.”

“Wronged, dread sorceress!” he said, looking up,
yet scarce daring to encounter the stern gaze she fixed
upon him. “I have wronged Heaven, but not thee. I
know thee not, save that I believe thou hast commerce
with the unseen world, and bearest in thine eyes hatred
towards me.”

“Thou wilt know me, and wherein thou hast wronged
me, black-hearted Osma, but not to-night. I am a
messenger of vengeance to thee, but thy time has not
yet come. A bloody day in thy life's calendar will
soon fall, and then wilt thou know me.”

“St. Michael's day?”

“So, so! Ha, ha! haughty noble!” and she laughed
derisively; “oh how quick is guilt in a seared conscience.
Thou hast truly named the day's anniversary
I mean.”

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

“Thou art a fearful woman.”

“Then obey me. I am in thy tent this night not
to play with thy fears nor trifle with thy crimes; thou
art a bad man, and it became needful that thou shouldst
know that there is one more terrible than thou, who
hath thy destiny in her hands, and will watch thy rule
with a jealous scrutiny, for there is one within this
city's gates dear to me as the apple of my eye. In
being her guardian, I am the city's.”

“How mean you?” he demanded, with quickness,
yet with reverence, marking the menacing tone in
which she spoke the last words, and fearing lest she
had known and would step between him and his coveted
vengeance.

“That not a roof shall blaze, nor a head fall on the
morrow for this night's work.”

“By the cross of St. James! woman, thou presumest
too far,” he cried, starting up, his fear of her
power suddenly swallowed up in his resentment at this
broad asseveration. “If thou be linked with devils,
thou art flesh and blood, and good steel will tell in it.
I know and fear thy power, but I will not be its slave.
Speak to me again of this, and I may take mind to be
the sole repository of my own secrets. Thou knowest
too much for thou and I to live in the same elements.
'Fore Heaven! I know not what keepeth my hand
back from slaying thee where thou standest.” His
eyes flashed, and his spirit got the mastery over his
superstitious dread. He held his dagger in a menacing
attitude, and for an instant his eye flashed back the
lightning of her own.

“It is because thou darest not do it,” she said, with
a stern dignity, that suited well her commanding air.
“In thy hand steel is powerless when it would strike
at my life. I am flesh and blood, as thou sayest. My
power over thee is of earth, and the secret of it thy
own guilty conscience. I boast no supernatural knowledge
therein, yet am I not a whit behind, in mine art,
that arch-priestess who bade one of thy prophets rise
from the tomb in the mouldered cerements of the dead,
and stand before living men.”

[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]

“Woman, hast thou power over the dead?” he asked,
stepping backward from her with awe.

“Ay; I can make murdered stand a bleeding
ghost before his murderer; walk before his eyes a
fleshless skeleton, clanking his bones; or watch his
midnight pillow with grim visage, chattering his ivory
jaws; or, wrapped in a winding-sheet, cross his lonely
path, with one finger ever pointing to a wound, one
hand to heaven; or, if thou wilt, I can make him appear
as when he lived, tall and stately, with cowl and
long gray cloak, till all should think he lived again—
save for the blazing eyeballs and cold death-touches
of his flesh.”

“Hold! terrible being, my brain is on fire. Cease,
or thou wilt drive me mad! Spare thy power, in the
name of the blessed angels! and I will be thy slave.”

“'Tis well. Art thou prepared to do my will?” she
asked, with the same unbending sternness that characterized
her throughout.

“Name it, and if it be aught that endangereth not
my precious soul's salvation—”

“Thy salvation! Hast thou a soul to be saved,
Count of Osma?” she fiercely demanded, contempt
and irony mingled in her harsh tones.

“Yea, sorceress, unless thou hast robbed me of it
by thy unholy arts,” he answered, with alarm visible
on his features.

“Ha! ha! Thou hast no need to fear me, Garcia
of Osma!” she said, laughing scornfully. “Thy precious
soul is best in thine own keeping till it hath filled
up its measure of wickedness. It is too late for
thee to care for it now.”

“Heaven hath forgiveness for the deepest crime,
woman.”

“On repentance, so says thy Koran.”

“What is repentance? Do I not regret the past?”
he said, sadly.

“That is not the repentance thy prophet hath commanded.
Let thy hand refrain from evil. What wrong
thou hast once done, do thou no more. This is repentance,
and such as thou hast never known, and never

[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

wilt know. Evil will ever be in thy right hand. Thy
soul! Ha! ha! Trouble not thyself, count—it is
cared for.”

“Be it as thou sayest. Holy Church hath indulgences.”

“Which thy ill-gotten gold will scarce purchase.
But fear not! My desire of thee will not endanger
thy soul's welfare. Thou hast given orders to sack
the city at dawn.”

“Ha! has Sulem—”

“Be calm, knight! When I know so much, is it a
strange thing I should know this? Thou hast resolved
to lay the city in ashes. Light a torch, and it shall be
to kindle thine own death-pyre.”

“The command has gone forth, and the day dawns.”

“It becomes thee to be the more speedy. Obey!”

“It shall be done, so I see thy face no more.”

“We must meet once, twice—nay, thrice more!”
she said, solemnly.

“May it not be, mysterious woman?”

“It may not.”

“If I see thee not after St. Michael's day, I will do
thy bidding.”

“Thou shalt not.”

“The city is then safe. Thou that knowest so much,
canst tell me aught of a young Spanish cavalier that
hath disappeared?”

“He is safe.”

“Then shall it be as thou wilt.”

“Write me the order—nay, thy secretary shall do
it for thee! Absulem Hassan!”

The curtain was swept aside, and in an instant the
Ethiopian stood submissively before her, and, without
looking at his lord, fixed his eyes expectantly upon the
face of the sorceress. The expression of his countenance
was that of the deepest awe and reverence.
The count saw this with wonder. Where had the
slave been that he obeyed not his voice! How knew
she a name he himself had not called him by for years!
He gazed in silent surprise.

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

“Absulem Hassan, write as thy master shall dictate,”
she said, authoritatively, pointing to the escritoire, while
her commanding eye was turned threateningly upon
the noble.

Without a word, the count motioned with his hand
for the slave to kneel at the table.

“Thy secretary waits for thee,” she said to him,
impatiently.

“Write a countermand of the order of twelve
o'clock, in these words,” he said:

“Headquarters, Place d'Armes, 1 A.M., September 10.

“The order issued at midnight is countermanded.

“It is enough. Place copies of them in my hand.
I will see that they are delivered to thy captains.”

She received from the Moor the sealed orders, and,
folding them in her mantle, once more gathered it
around her tall, thin person, and drew her cowl over
her eyes.

“I adjure thee, meet not my vision in that shape.
Go, if thou hast done thine errand,” he cried, with a
ghastly countenance, in which shame and indignation
at what he had been compelled to do plainly struggled
to vent themselves; “leave me, and may the depths
of hell receive thy horrid form.”

“Thrice more I will visit thee, Knight of Osma, and
my errand will then be done, vengeance appeased, and
justice satisfied. Till then, remember in all thy acts
of power that mine is greater than thine, and that this
province, for the sake of one in it whom else thy lust
and power might blight, hath a sleepless guardian.”

Thus speaking, she gathered her flowing mantle
about her limbs, and, with a commanding majesty of
aspect and demeanour, stalked across the tent, lifted
the hangings, and disappeared.

The count looked after her a moment, and then
convulsively clinched his hands together, gnashed his

[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]

teeth, glared around with demoniac wildness, while
rage and shame filled his soul. He seized the dagger
which had fallen at his feet, and, shaking it aloft, struck
it madly out in the air, where the sorceress had so
lately stood, as if he would vent his impotent rage on
empty space. The prostrate form of Sulem, who had
fallen on his face in profoundest Oriental veneration
of the departing sorceress, met his eyes, and he sent
the weapon towards him with such force that it sunk
into the ground beside him to the hilt.

“Get thee to thy feet, Leviathan!” he cried. “Art
thou become a fool also? Thou deservest death in
permitting this fiend to enter my tent. I will pour my
thwarted vengeance on the false sentinels; so, speak
for thyself.”

“She is a dark woman, cadi!” he answered, with
awe.

“Dost thou fear her?”

“Sulem is her slave.”

“She is thy countrywoman, too?”

“She hath the Moorish tongue, cadi, and spoke
words into my ear with it, when she would enter, that
made my soul tremble. She is a dark woman!”

“What meanest thou?”

“She hath her seat in the sun, and her feet resting
upon the sea. She knoweth the future as if it were
the past, and the past hath no secret that she knows it
not. The spirits of the dead are at her command, and
the living become like dead men in the scorching
glance of her eye. She commanded me, and I
obeyed.”

“And she commanded me too, and I obeyed,” he
repeated, fiercely, while his countenance gleamed with
indignant anger. “I am levelled with my slave. By
the cross of my knighthood, I will not live under it!
This twenty-ninth of September! This accursed St.
Michael's day! Wonderful and damnable is her
knowledge! Not a secret of my soul but what she
knoweth it. Sulem!” he cried, suddenly turning to

[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]

the Moor, who now stood before him in his usual attitude,
with his arms folded across his breast.

“Cadi!”

“That sorceress must die!”

The Moor uttered a cry of supernatural terror, and
fell prostrate at his feet, which he clasped imploringly.

“What means this, fool?”

“The lightnings of Allah will consume to ashes the
mortal that lifts hand against one like her.”

“Out upon thee, superstitious idiot!” cried the count,
though not himself free from the fears that filled the
breast of the trembling Ethiopian. “She must die!”
he added, slowly and determinately.

“She hath no life!” he said, with horror.

“No life! She hath veins, and blood in them, and
it must flow. Look well to thy cimeter's edge. If
she live till the morning of St. Michael's day, thy head
shall answer it. To thy post without my tent door.
If but a shadow fall upon its threshold, I will send thee
in chains to thy Moorish master. Ha, you shrink!
Go: I would be alone.”

Left alone, the Count of Osma gave himself up to
long and calm reflection upon the events that had transpired
in his interview with the extraordinary being, who,
by mere moral force, had subdued his haughty will and
bent it to her purpose. At length he cast himself into
his chair, and, summoning the captain of the guard before
him, learned from him that a mysterious individual,
such as the count now described to him, had been permitted
to pass both to and from the pavilion on the faith
of his signet, which had been exhibited to each of the
posts in succession and recognised.

“It is thus far well,” he said. “Henceforward, signor,
obey no signet that is not backed by the countersign
also. To your duty.”

The officer then left the cabinet; and, soon afterward,
worn and wearied both in body and mind, the
count threw himself upon his couch, and sought oblivion
in sleep.

p160-146 CHAPTER XI. SCENE IN A QUADROONE'S BOUDOIR.

[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]

When the beautiful Quadroone retired from the
presence of her brother and the handsome young cavalier,
she traversed the latticed and vine-shaded cloister
of the square court, heedless of the floods of song
poured from the throat of her favourite nightingale at
her approach—of the flowers that scattered their dewheavy
leaves at her feet—of the moon shining on her
skyey throne, turning the clouds to silver as they sailed
beneath, and filling the court with its cold, chaste
splendour—heedless of all save the remembrance of
him whom she had just left. At the extremity of the
corridor, opening outward, was a double Venetian door,
dropped across the opening of which, on the inside, was
visible a curtain of crimson silk, its colour receiving a
richer tone from a lamp within. She placed her hand
upon it, but, ere drawing it aside, lingered on the threshold
in a listening attitude, as if she fain would once
more distinguish the voice of the stranger, whose image
filled her soul.

“Hist, Eglé! wilt thou not be quiet?” she said, angrily,
to her mocking-bird, which at that instant alighted
upon a vase near her, and made the whole air alive
with melody.

Scarce had she spoken ere she felt she had betrayed
her heart to herself, and surprised, alarmed at the
knowledge of it, she bent her lovely head in confusion,
and, lifting the curtain, disappeared within.

The apartment into which she entered was well fitted
to receive so fair a mistress. It was a small boudoir,
characterized throughout by the most exquisite
taste. The floor was inlaid with mosaic in flowers and
figures, as finished as a painting in fresco, and shining

[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

with the lustre of polished marble. Over its mirrorlike
surface were strewn gorgeous mats of dyed Angola
hair; the walls were hung with figured tapestry, and
around them were ottomans and divans of the most luxurious
description. In the furniture and architectural
decorations, azure and purple, gold and silver, were
called into service, and the softest and the most delicate
colours seemed to have contributed to perfect the harmonious
whole. In the midst of this elegance, which
rivalled that of a cabinet of a fairy princess, were conspicuous
the signs of the Christian faith. At one extremity
of the toilet-chamber was a miniature altar of
black marble. On it stood a small ivory crucifix, before
which burned a silver lamp, the gentle rays from
which emitted a soft radiance throughout the room, and
diffused around a spicy aroma. Beyond the altar, in
a recess, was a deep window looking towards the Place
d'Armes, and towering above it, in the moonlight, appeared
the white towers of the Cathedral, like gigantic
guardians of the city. On the right of the altar the
drapery was drawn aside, giving a glimpse within of a
simple yet tasteful couch, hung around with snowy curtains—
sleeping-room ante-room—and they both constituted
the sacred home of the maiden. Here doubtless
were passed her most retired hours and seasons
of devotion. Here were her broidery frame, her harp,
her lute, gilded volumes, and scrolls of music. Here,
unsuspecting their real end, she pursued and perfected
herself in those accomplishments, in which her guilty
mother had taken pains to make her a proficient.
Hither she fled from the oppression and vice of the
judging and unfriendly world, in the forgetfulness of
sleep no more to remember her sorrow; or, bowed
down before the altar of her Redeemer, stay her heavy
soul.

Within the last twenty-four hours she had found need
of this consolation. The object of criminal love, she
depended, in the confidence of her sisterly heart, on
her brother's arm and fervent affection, and by faith on
Him who could give that arm strength in the cause of

[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]

virtue, and make that affection a consuming fire to her
oppressor.

Azèlie entered her boudoir with a flushed cheek, and,
dropping the silken curtain again across the entrance,
passionately cast herself upon her knees before the
crucifix, and, putting back her dark hair from her beauteous
face, clasped her hands upon the altar and laid
her forehead upon them. For a few seconds she seemed
like a statue, so motionless was every limb and fold
of her vesture. She was struggling with a supernatural
effort to keep down her newly-awakened love. But
in vain. Her bosom began to heave violently, her
breath came quick and convulsively, and her spirit
seemed as if it would burst its tenement. Suddenly
tears, blessed tears, came to her relief, and dropped
upon the altar like rain, thick and fast. In a few moments
afterward she lifted her dewy face heavenward,
with a look of calm and divine resignation, such as
Raphael loved to give his Madonnas, and her lips moved.
There was no sound—yet she prayed.

She prays for protection and for mortal strength to
the Virgin Mary, the protectress of virgins! Gentle
Azèlie! There is a beautiful propriety in thy petition—
thine is the poetry of religion! But One whom thou
hast forgotten, whose dread name thy lips are forbidden
to pronounce—One whom thou art taught by error to
believe too high and august to regard human petitions—
HE will hear thee, lovely child! He will protect
thee. Yet thou knowest not the extent of thy wretchedness,
nor how much protection thou needest to pray
for! Thou knowest not of the unjust and wicked claim
of which thou art the victim! Thou knowest not that
he whom thou fearest, from whose unhallowed passion
thy pure soul shrinks, hath proclaimed thee his slave,
and that the judges of the city gainsay it not!

She rose from the altar, and, seating herself by the
trellised casement in the recess behind it, with her hand
supporting her cheek, gazed vacantly forth. A garden
filled with lemon, orange, citron, and other tropical
fruit-bearing trees was beneath, or, rather, before her,

[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

for the ground window opened outward into it. The
heavens were deep and tranquil. Silence reigned over
the city. Not a sound came from the deserted streets.
The fragrant night breeze-fanned her brow and sported
with her raven tresses, while the moon slept upon
her pale forehead as if it had lain on marble. How
exquisitely formed was the hand and arm that supported
the head! How full of grace her figure! How
beautiful the depth of the upturned eyes! What sweetness
in the line of her mouth, just parted as if to speak!
How eloquent with tender sorrow was all!

She directed her look to the skies, but her thoughts
were not there. She was communing with her own
heart, into which, unknown to her, love had stolen as
she watched the pillow of the Spanish youth. She
thought of his wondrous beauty and noble demeanour!
She recalled each feature, dwelt on every varying expression,
and remembered his accents when he spoke
to her brother. To herself he had not spoken, save
with his eyes; and they were so full of respectful tenderness—
so impressive, yet so devoted—it seemed to
her young heart the language of love—of honourable
love, such as became a maiden to receive.

“Does he love me?” she tremblingly asked of her
heart.

That she loved him she could no longer disguise
from herself. Like that sweet bud that unfolds its petals
to the honey-bee only when the sun shines upon
it, her young heart had expanded at the first glance of
his dark eye, and admitted love.

“Does he love me?” she asked of herself.

She trembled to answer. A deep sigh escaped her,
and thought, busy thought, involved her in its mazes.
Suddenly she started to her feet, as if some bitter reflection
had stung her to the soul, and, with a wild
laugh and flashing eye, cried, in the short, energetic
tones of despair,

“Love me! Ha, ha, ha! Am I not a quadroone?
Yes, he may love me!” she added, with ironical bitterness;
“a quadroone is easily loved! Ay, marry!

[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]

she hath lovers enough! Thou art well punished, foolish
maiden, for forgetting thy condition. That burning
thought! It is fire to my brain! Crushed are all my
bright visions! wrecked my hopes! Love, Love!
The very word, so dear to a virgin heart, so pleasant
to her ear, becomes a name of guilt on my lip!”

Her air, the indignant, ringing tones of her voice,
and the vivacity of her manner, showed a spirit and
dignity that were scarce to be looked for in one so
gentle and feminine. But the awakened spirit of an
insulted woman hath ever the lofty character of sublimity.

She walked her room with a rapid step for a few
moments, then suddenly stood still, as if a flash of
thought had checked her. Her voice was now more
subdued, and hope beamed in her eyes.

“Nay, he was so noble, and his presence so gentle,
and his eyes were so respectful! If—yet he may not
have known me to be one of the accursed race!
Men are not wont to look upon us as he looked on me!
I could have cast myself at his feet, for I felt he would
have lifted me to his heart. Oh! my poor heart!
Still thy throbbing; for he whom thou art so wildly
beating for will ne'er care for thee if thou break! Ah
me! thou wilt be soon quiet enough in the grave.”

She sank upon an ottoman as she mournfully said
this, and seemed lost in the bitterness of wo! Poor
Azèlie! Who will not pity thee! Child of guilt,
and daughter of infamy! Notwithstanding thou hast
lived amid all the fascinations of vice and the allurements
of luxurious temptation; notwithstanding thou
hast been taught to believe beauty given to thee to ensnare,
and that female purity hath its price! that virtue
is only a name, and honour as the idle wind; notwithstanding
thy mind has been poisoned by subtle
morals, and thy soul perverted by the example and precept
of an unnatural mother; notwithstanding all of
thy race, and the light-hearted maidens of thy youth,
embrace dishonour, and blush not at what they know
no wrong in, yet thou art innocent and pure! Heaven

[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]

hath given thee a spotless spirit and a virtuous heart;
endowed thee with a lovely and gentle nature, yet a
firmness and pride of spirit that leadeth thee to prefer
death to infamy, and the dark silence of the grave to
the silken couch of illicit love!

She had remained in the drooping attitude into
which she had sunk upon the divan, her soul full of
gentle sadness, but a few minutes, when a door at the
opposite extremity of her sleeping apartment opened,
and a female, of the most majestic beauty of form,
stately, but not tall, with an inconceivable grace in her
step and carriage, entered, and drew back the curtains
of the couch. With an exclamation of surprise
at finding it unoccupied, she, with a quicker step, entered
the room where sat Azèlie, too deeply busied in
her own reflections to observe her presence. She
was about thirty-five years of age, with an eye of the
most voluptuous black, and depth of passion. Her
complexion was of the richest brown of the ripe berry,
warm, sunny, and glowing, and soft with all the
delicacy of youth. The high, smooth forehead was a
model for a queenly brow, notwithstanding the shadow
of the olive, and not the bright light of the lily, rested
there. Her brows were black as night, but pencilled
to a hair in the most perfect arches; while the eyes beneath!—
they were orbs of soul, glorious, magnificent—
languid, burning, and ardent in their glances, yet
melting with tenderness: eyes dark and dangerous as
they were beautiful! The mouth was as dangerous as
the eyes, for Love seemed there to have touched his arrows
ere he shot them from the latter. Her nose
was straight and finely shaped; her lips cut as if with
the chisel; her chin of that faultless roundness and
downy finish that will be remembered in beautiful
woman, and which no pen may delineate. Her face
was a fine oval, the contour of which the arrangement
of her raven hair, parted on her forehead, as if for
night costume, smoothly on each temple, contributed
to preserve. Her form was enveloped in a robe de
chamber, that displayed her superb bust, and small,

[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]

elegant waist, without altogether hiding the shape of an
arm of matchless proportions; while beneath were
visible a pair of very small feet, very hollow in the instep,
of that pure model and exquisite delineation
characteristic of the quadroone, of which, save at the
ball of the heel and near the toe, no part touched the
earth. The majestic breadth, yet symmetry of her
shoulders and bust were extraordinarily contrasted by
the smallness of her pliant waist, though in the perfect
tournure of her whole figure the unity and harmony
were complete. Altogether, hers were the face,
foot, and figure of a quadroone, a race which, in form,
limb, and action of the body, are models of the human
species. She paused in surprise as she beheld the
maiden, and the angry light of her eyes, which the
long, heavy lid, and soft, sable fringes could not subdue,
betrayed that, amid all that voluptuous langour, there
slumbered a mine of passion, and that Hecate, as
well as Cupid, held empire there.

“Azèlie! girl, why art thou not on thy pillow? Is
it that thou mayest now spoil thine eyes and cheek that
I have been for years unfolding thy charms and instilling
into thee the arts of loveliness? Up with thee,
girl!”

At the first sound of her voice, the young Quadroone
shrunk instinctively within herself; but the moment
afterward she rose, and, with her hands folded upon
her breast, stood submissively and patiently before her.

“What would you, ma mère?” she asked, seeing her
mother fix her large full eye upon her, with the deliberative
look of one who had not decided whether to
pursue towards her a course of forbearance or sternness.

“Why art thou not in thy chamber?”

“Renault—”

“Renault! It is ever Renault! The stripling hath
got to rule the household, by the Virgin!” she said,
angrily. “What hath he done now?”

“He bade me watch by the wounded cavalier's
couch, his duties carrying him abroad.”

[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]

“And didst thou come from thence, when now I
heard thy footstep and voice in the corridor, which
brought me hither?” she demanded, almost fiercely
pressing her arm with passionate force.

“I have, ma mère.”

“Sleeps he yet?” she inquired, rapidly interrogating
her.

“He hath awakened refreshed.”

“Hast thou spoken to him?”

“Nay, ma mere!”

“Nor he to thee?”

“My brother came in and woke him, I believe,” she
answered, now remembering, with sudden surprise,
that she herself had fallen asleep.

Her jealous mother saw the blush that mantled her
face, and fixed her eyes upon her as if she would read
her soul with a glance.

“Tell me truly,” she asked again, with slow and
terrific emphasis, “hath he spoken with thee?”

“No, ma mère.”

“Nor thou to him?”

“No.”

“Nor by sign nor look?” she demanded, more severely.

“Nay, mother.”

She looked into the maiden's countenance an instant
after she answered, and then, as if satisfied of
her truth, said,

“'Tis well for him it is so. He should have died.”

Azèlie buried her face in her hands and was silent;
but the words her mother had spoken were every one
of them as a strong cord of mingled pity and resentment
to bind the young Spaniard closer to her heart.
Opposition, as it ever will, effectually secured to him
one who would be his firm protector if she menaced
him with danger. After watching her daughter's
countenance for a moment, she said, in a more gentle
tone,

“It is well for thee and him. Thou knowest a
breath upon thy reputation would defeat my hopes of

[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]

thee. Thou shouldst remember that the honour of a
quadroone, till she hath her protector, is sacred as a
betrothed bride's. Thy brother Renault hath become
too independent; he spurns my authority, and would
control thee as if thou owed obedience nowhere else!
Is he with the Spaniard?”

“I left him there, ma mère.”

“See thou keep thy chamber while this stranger is
here. Renault shall send him away ere the day end.
Thou art too lovely a treasure, child, to be lightly
guarded. One stain upon thy maiden honour, and the
poorest bourgeois of the town would not accept thee.
As thou art, a prince might kneel for thee.”

“Mother, hear me!” said Azèlie, with spirit. “The
destiny you have in store for me shall never be mine.
I would not share the unblessed couch of an emperor.
Thou carest for my honour. Mockery, mockery,
mother! Alas! thou knowest not the meaning of
honour save that it is the price of dishonour. Since
yesterday, light has broken in upon me. I will die,
mother, ere I become the thing you would have me!”
The spirit of her eye and brow bore testimony to her
words.

“What means this, child?” demanded the quadroone-mother,
with surprise; and then asked scornfully,
“Would you be a wife?”

“I will never be a concubine,” she replied with
spirit, blushing crimson with shame, that her feelings
should be so rudely tried.

“Ha! this young Spaniard hath done this!”

“I have done it.”

“He hath offered terms to thee?”

“Never!” she cried, with indignation.

“Art thou mad? What is this that hath possessed
thee?”

“Virtue.”

“Virtue! ha! Yes, I have taken care that thou
art virtuous, and that thou continue so till he who
would wear thee hath paid the price of thy beauty.
It is worth a princess's equipage, and shall win it for

[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]

thee. But calm thyself, my sweet child. I have come
to tell thee thou needest think no more, not will I speak
to thee more, of this Jules Caronde, whom thy obstinacy
hath compelled to a course against me and thyself
that he shall answer for. Does he think that by
enslaving the mother, even for one hour, in order to
possess the daughter, he shall succeed? No! This
hand shall deprive both him of its object and thee of
life at the same moment first.”

“Thanks, thanks, ma mère!” she cried, embracing
her.

“This obstinacy of thine hath turned to thy good
fortune,” she continued, returning with a caress the
grateful expression of her feelings. “The claim he
makes I have papers in my possession to defeat. But
I can never forget that he has made it, and that before
all men I and thou have been proclaimed slaves.”

“Slaves, mother!”

“Caronde's slaves!”

Azèlie uttered a cry of despair, tottered, and would
have fallen but for the support of her mother's arm,
beside whom she sunk down almost insensible.

“Fear not, my child! The instruments of manumission,
signed and sealed by his father, are in my
private cabinet, to be forthcoming if the crisis to call
them forth should ever arrive. But I have learned
that he has been carried to his fortress, heavily wounded,
in the affray in the Place d' Armes, and may not
live—which the saints grant! Rise, child; thou shalt
never hear of him more from me, and I will forgive
thy disobedience to my wishes, as he has not proved
worthy of my choice or of thy gentle beauty.”

She embraced her daughter as she spoke, who returned
her unwonted kindness with a smile, brighter
than for many days had lighted up her features. She
then commanded her to retire, and kissed and bade
her an affectionate good-night, saying, with a smile.

“I knew I should lighten thy heart, enfante, with
my news. Caronde hath made himself basely unworthy
of you, and thou shalt not hear, at least, his name
again.”

p160-156

[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]

“Nor any name, I implore thee, ma mère. I will
willingly die first.”

“Nay, ma chère, we will not talk of that now; go
to sleep, or thine eyes will be red and swollen with
these late hours. The night air and burning oil are
poison to beauty.”