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No sooner had the Alguazil departed from the
enclosure, than the figure which Juan had beheld
obscurely among the shadows, stepped slowly into
the moonshine, looking like a phantom, because so
closely shrouded from head to foot that nothing
was seen but the similitude of a human being,
wrapped, as it might be imagined, in a gray winding-sheet.
The thick hood and veil concealed her
countenance, and even her hands were hidden
among the folds.

It seemed, for a moment, as if she were about to
speak, for low murmurs came inarticulately from
the veil. As for Juan himself, he was kept silent
by the most painful agitation. At last, and when
it appeared as if the unhappy being was conscious
that no other mode of revealment was in her power,
she raised her hand to her head, and the next moment,
the hood falling back, the moonbeams fell
upon the exposed visage of La Monjonaza. It was
exceedingly, indeed deadly, pale; and the gleaming
of her dewy forehead indicated how feebly even
her powerful strength of mind contended with a
sense of humiliation. She made an effort to elevate
her head, to compose her features into womanly
dignity, but all in vain; her hands sought
each other, and were clasped together upon her
breast, her lips quivered, her head fell, and her eyes,
after one wild, brief, and supplicating glance, were
east upon the earth.

“Alas, Magdalena!” exclaimed Juan, with tones

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of the deepest feeling, “do I see you here, do I see
you thus?”

At these words she raised her head, with a sudden
and convulsive start, as if the imputation they
conveyed had stung her to the soul; and as she
bent her eyes upon Juan, though they were filled
with tears, yet they flashed with what seemed a
noble indignation. But this was soon changed to
a milder and sadder expression, and the flush which
had accompanied it, was quickly replaced by her
former paleness.

“Thou dost indeed see me here,” she replied,
summoning her resolution, and speaking firmly,
“and thou seest me thus,—degraded, not in thine
imagination only, but in the suspicions of all, down
to the level of scorn. Yes,” she continued, bitterly,
“and while thou pitiest me for a shame endured
only for thyself,—endured only that I may requite
thee with life for life,—thou art sorry thy hand ever
snatched me from the billows. Speak, Juan Lerma,
is it not so?”

“It had been better, Magdalena,” said the youth,
reproachfully, “for, besides that the act caused me
to be stained with blood, it afflicts me with a curse
still more heavy. I do not mourn the death of
Hilario, as I mourn the downfall of one whom I
once esteemed almost a seraph.”

“Villain that he was!” cried Magdalena, with
vindictive impetuosity, “mean and malignant in life
and in death! who, with a lie, living, destroyed the
peace and the fame of the friendless, and died with
a lie, that both might remain blighted for ever! O
wretch! O wretch! there is no punishment for
him among the fiends, for he was of their nature.
And thou mournest his death, too! Thou cursest
the hand that avenged the wrong of a feeble woman!”

“I lament that I slew the son of my benefactor,”
said Juan, with a deep sigh; and then added with

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one still deeper, “but, sinner that I am, I rejoice
while looking on thee, in the fierce thought, that I
killed the destroyer of innocence.”

“The destroyer of innocence indeed,” replied
Magdalena, with a voice broken and suffocating.
“Yes, innocence!” she exclaimed more wildly, “or
at least, the fame of innocence! for innocence herself
he could not harm. No, by heaven! oh, no!
for what I came from the sea, that I am now; yes,
now, I tell thee, now! and if thou darest give
tongue to aught else, if thou darest think—Oh heaven!
this is more than I can bear! Say, Juan
Lerma! say! dost thou, too, believe me the thing
I am called? the base, the fallen, the degraded?”

“Alas, Magdalena,” replied Juan, to the wild demand:
“with his dying lips, Hilario—”

“With his dying lips, he perjured his soul for
ever!” exclaimed Magdalena, “for ever, for ever!”
she went on, with inexpressible energy and fury;
“and may the curse of a broken-hearted woman,
destroyed by his defaming malice, cling to him as
long, scorching him with fresh torments, even when
fiends grow relentful and forbearing. Mountains
of fire requite the coals he has thrown upon my
bosom! May God never forgive him! no, never!
never!”

“This is horrid!” said Juan. “Revoke thy
malediction: it is impiety. Alas, alas!” he continued,
moved with compassion, as the singular
being, passing at once from a sibyl-like rage to the
deepest and most feminine abasement of grief,
wrung her hands, and sobbed aloud and bitterly;
“Would indeed that thou hadst perished with the
others!”

“Would that I had!” said Magdalena, more
calmly; “but thou hadst then been left to a malice
like that which has slain me.—No, not like that;
for it is content with thy life!—I would ask thee
more of myself,” she went on, more composedly,

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after a little pause, “but it needs not. If I can
show thee thou wrongest me concerning Hilario,
canst thou not believe I may be even here without
stain? Well, I care not; one day, thou wilt know
thou hast wronged me. But let the shame rest upon
me now; for it needs I should think, not of myself,
but of thee. Listen to me, Juan Lerma; for fallen
or not, yet am I thine only friend among a thousand
enemies. Give up thy service, thy hopes of fame
and fortune in this land, and leave it. Leave
Mexico, return to the islands. Thou hast marvellously
escaped a death, subtly and cruelly designed;
and now thou art destined to an end as
vengeful, and perhaps even more inevitable. Yet
there is one way of escape, and there is one moment
to take advantage of it. Leave Mexico:
Cortes is thy foe.—Leave Mexico.”

“These are but wild words, Magdalena,” said
Juan, with a troubled voice. “I would do much to
remove thee from a situation, the thought whereof
is bitterer to me than my own misfortunes.”

“Wouldst thou?” said Magdalena, eagerly.
“Go then, and I go likewise; go then, and know
that thy departure not only releases me from a
situation of disgrace, but enables me to make clear
a reputation which thou—yes, thou,—believest to
be sullied and lost. I am not what I seem—Saints
of heaven, that I should have to say it! But by the
grave of my mother, I swear, Juan Lerma, thou doest
me as deep a wrong as others. Leave this land, and
thou shalt see that the fame of an angel is not purer
than mine own scorned name,—no, by heaven, no
freer from a deserved shame. Thou shakest thy
head!—I could kill thee, Juan Lerma, I could kill
thee!”—she went on, with a strange mingling of
fierce resentment and beseeching grief; “I could
kill thee, for I have not deserved this of thee!”
Then, changing her tone, and clasping her hands
submissively, she said, “But think not of me, or

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rather continue to think me unworthy of aught but
pity: think not, above all, that what I do is with
any reference to myself. No, heaven is my witness,
I claim of thee neither affection nor respect; I am
content to be mistaken, to be despised. All this I
can endure, and will, uncomplaining,—so that I can
rescue thee from the danger in which thou art
placed. Leave this land: Don Hernan deceives
thee; he hates thee, and thirsts after thy blood.
He has confessed it!”

“God be my help!” said Juan, despairingly; “my
life is in his hands. If this be true—”

“If it be true!” repeated Magdalena: “It is
known to all but thyself.”

“It is not true!” exclaimed the young man, vehemently:
“I have done him no wrong, and he is
not the detestable being you would make him. If
he be, I owe him a life—let him have it; it is in
his hands.”

“Leave Mexico,” reiterated Magdalena. “If
thou goest to Tochtepec, thou art lost. I have it in
my power to aid,—nay, to secure thy escape. Say,
therefore, thou wilt consent, say thou wilt leave
Mexico!”

“It cannot be,” said Juan, with a sad and sullen
resolution: “I will await my fate in Mexico!”

“And wilt thou stand, like the fat ox, till the
noose is cast upon thy neck? till thou art butchered?”

“My life is nothing—I live not for myself: the
redemption of others depends upon my acts. I
have a duty that speaks more urgently than fear.
My lot is cast in Mexico; I cannot leave it.”

As he spoke, with a firm voice, he bent his looks
expressively on his companion. Her eyes flashed
fire, and they shone from her pale face like living
coals:

“Sayst thou this to me?” she exclaimed, her
voice trembling with fury, “sayst thou this to

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me?” Then advancing a step, and laying her
hand upon his arm, she continued, her accents
sinking almost into whispers, they were so subdued,
or so feeble, “Lay not upon thy soul a sin greater
than stains it already. Leave Mexico; resolve or
die: leave Mexico, or perish!—Oh, thou art guiltier
than thou thinkest! Thou hast cursed Hilario for
my fall: curse thyself,—not Hilario, but thyself;
for but for thee, but for thee, I had been happy!
yes, happy, happy!”

To these words, Juan, though greatly compassionating
the distress of the speaker, would have
replied with remonstrance; but she gave him no
opportunity. She continued to repeat over and
over again, with a kind of hysterical pertinacity,
the words `Leave Mexico! leave Mexico!' so that
Juan was not only prevented replying, but confounded.
He was relieved from embarrassment by
a sudden growl, coming from the bushes at his
side. La Monjonaza started at the sound, and in
the moment of silence that succeeded, both could
distinguish the steps of a man rapidly approaching
the pool. At the same instant, another growl was
heard, and Befo, issuing from the leafy covert, took
a stand by his master's side, as if to defend him
from an enemy. The veil of Magdalena fell over
her visage; she paused but to whisper, in tones of
such energy that they thrilled him to the soul,
`Leave Mexico, or die!' and then instantly vanished
among the boughs. It was too late for Juan to follow
her: he had scarce time to lay his hand upon
Befo's neck and moderate his ferocity, before his
eyes were struck with the strange spectacle of a
tall man, in the garb of a Dominican friar, his face
pale as death, his hand holding a naked sword, who
strode into the inclosure and upon that part of the
path which was illuminated by the moonbeams. No
sooner had he cast his eyes upon Juan than he exclaimed,
“Die, wretch!” and made a pass at him
with his weapon. Had the lunge been skilfully

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made, it must have proved fatal; for though Juan
still held the sheathless rapier he had brought from
his chamber, he was so much surprised at the suddenness
of the apparition, that his attempt to ward
it could not have succeeded against a good fencer.
A better protection was given by the faithful Befo,
who, darting from Juan's hand, against the assailant's
breast, attacked him with a shock so violent,
that, in an instant, the señor Camarga (for it was
he who played this insane part) lay rolling upon his
back, his grizzled locks streaming in the pool.

“In the name of heaven, what dost thou mean,
and who art thou, impostor and assassin!” cried
Juan, pulling off the dog, and helping Camarga to
his feet. “Thou art mad, I think!”

There was something in the man's countenance,
as well as in the murderous attempt, to confirm the
idea; for Camarga's agitation was singular and
extreme, and he seemed unable to answer a word.

“Who art thou?” continued Juan angrily, impressed
with the certainty that he had seen the face
of the assailant before, yet without knowing when
or where. “Confess thyself straight, or I will have
thee to the Alguazil, and see the friar's frock
scourged from thy base body!”

However eager and foreboding the young man's
curiosity, it was doomed to be disappointed by a
new interruption. While he yet spoke, he was
alarmed by a sudden discharge of firearms, followed
by shrieks and cries, at the bottom of the garden;
and presently the whole solitude was transformed
into a scene of tumult and uproar. Lights
were seen flashing among the trees, and men were
heard running confusedly to and fro, calling to one
another.

The last word had hardly parted from his lips,
before the boughs crashed on the opposite side of
the pool, and a new actor was suddenly added to
the scene.

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