University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

The pleasant laughter, and gay voices of Nuno de Tobar, and
his betrothed, prepared Olivia de Alvaro for their approach. The
trace of tears was quickly obliterated from her eyes, and she
strove with smiles to welcome her visitors. Pride, as was
alleged by her uncle, was one of the chief securities for her
strength, no less than for his safety. She was one of those who
love not that the world should behold or suspect their sorrows.
But her pride was rather a habit than a passion. She had other
and more fiery qualities in her nature, for which he failed to give
her credit. He deceived himself when he thought he knew her
thoroughly. Some of her characteristics were yet in abeyance,
some moods and passions which are likely to confound and
astonish him hereafter. But these in proper season. She, herself,
is perhaps as little aware, as her uncle, of her natural
endowments.

Olivia received her guests on the steps of her verandah. The
cloud had disappeared from her face, the light had returned to
her large and lustrous eyes, and with the sweetest voice in the
world, she welcomed them to an abode which, to the casual
visitor, would seem to be entirely secure from sorrow. The
young creatures who now entered it, themselves newly made
happy, were certainly not the persons to make any discovery of
the latent troubles of its inmate; and assuming the happiness in
other hearts, which they felt in their own, they poured out upon
Olivia a torrent of congratulations, which it required considerable

strength of endurance to withstand. She had heard of their
betrothal, and of the forgiveness which De Soto had extended to
the erring gallant. Society at that day in Cuba was not particularly
jealous of propriety. That Leonora Bovadilla had
sinned, found its sufficient excuse with knight and lady, in the
simple fact that she loved; and it was only with that class of
ancients, of her own sex, who had survived even the hope of a
change from single to dependent blessedness—a number singularly
few in every community—that censure claimed the privilege
still to wag a slanderous tongue under the guise of a jealous
virtue. Olivia de Alvaro had never been of the number to
reproach the poor Leonora for her lapse, even when it was
doubtful whether the sense of virtue, the sentiment of honor,
or the feeling of love, in Nuno de Tobar, would prompt him
to repair his wrong according to the worldly usage, by
making her his wife. Having known her as a thoughtless child,
without guile as without experience, a creature of extreme levity,
but without any impulses to evil more than seemed naturally
to belong to the mercurial temper, Olivia was not prepared to regard
her as guilty, because she had been weak. She was
indulgent in proportion as the world showed itself severe. She
knew, according to a common history, that,
and rising above the prejudices of the world, as much through
sympathy as generosity, she suffered her manner towards the
frail offender to show none of those harsher aspects which forever
insist upon its faults. On the contrary, a tender solicitude
seemed desirous to soothe the humiliations of the sufferer, and
make her forgetful of those public disgraces which she could not
always hope to escape. Leonora felt all this, and repaid the
kindness of Olivia by as much devotion as could distinguish a
nature so thoughtless. The first visit which she made, after the
reconciliation of her guardian with her lover, was that which we
now witness. Of course, the peculiar case of the visitors was not
one to be spoken of openly. The silent pressure of Leonora's
hand by Olivia, the tender kiss which she impressed upon her
cheeks, and the single tear which gathered in her eye, as she
whispered a hurried word of congratulation, sufficiently assured
the former of the continuance of that sympathy which had already
afforded her so much solace. But she erred, perhaps, in
ascribing the tear to the sympathies of friendship. Had she but
beheld the big drops that fell from the same fruitful fountains,
but a little while before, she might have suspected other and
more selfish sources of sorrow in her friend.

Seated in the cool shadows of the verandah, the gay Leonora
soon opened her stores of prattle. She had gathered all the
rumors of the day, and she was impatient to unfold them.

“And O! dearest Olivia, have you heard of the tournament?
The town is full of it. It is to be the greatest and the gayest
of all the shows that we have had. They have begun the preparations
already. Such a painting of shields and banners,—
such a sharpening of swords and burnishing of lances,—such
a prancing of steeds—it will be something to remember a thousand
years to come! Nuno has been busy since noon making the
arrangements. The adelantado cannot do without him. He
will be busy for a week,—they will all be busy—your knight, as
well as mine; for you know, Olivia, you have a knight.”

The other shook her head very mournfully.

“Nay, never shake your head; you know it as well as I—two
of them, indeed; and you might have a dozen, if you were not
so proud.”

“Me proud, Leonora!” reproachfully.

“No! no! I don't mean that! I ought to know, if any one,
that you are any thing but proud. I should have said, so lofty—
so superior—”

“Ah! you mock me, child.”

“I am a child; but I don't mock you. It is so. I believe it
all, and everybody else thinks so. I'm sure you'd have a thousand
suitors, if they did not all feel that they are unworthy of
your smiles.”

The hand of Olivia was passed with a close pressure over her
brows. Little did the thoughtless Leonora dream that the action
was occasioned by a feeling of pain. She continued:

“But of the homage of the knights of Portugal, nobody has a
question. It is in every one's mouth; everybody sees that both
the brothers love you to distraction. The question with them all
is, which of them you favor. Now, I am for Don Andres, the
younger; but Nuno—”

Here she was interrupted by a look from her betrothed, for
which Olivia was properly grateful. The subject seemed to annoy
her.

“Hush, hush, dear Leonora!—Tell us of the tournament rather.
This is not the season to talk of love, but of war. See how the
adelantado treats the affections, when they come in conflict with
his ambition. Who so lovely, so stately, so noble, so like a
Queen, as the Lady Isabella?—yet will he leave her, a newly-wedded
wife, to go on wild adventures against the Floridians.
Fie upon such chivalry, such devotion, such love! What need
hath he of further wars?—hath he not wealth enough from Peru?
—hath he not grandeur enough as Governor of this goodly island,
and reputed one of the noblest cavaliers of Spain? Methinks
he wantonly flings from him a living and a glorious treasure, for
a dream—for a shadow which will mock his hope, and defraud
him of all his happiness.”

Olivia had spoken rapidly, in order, possibly, to divert the interest
of her companions to other subjects. In speaking, however,
of the projected conquest of Florida, she yet trenched upon
the province of Nuno de Tobar, and indirectly assailed his conduct
also. He, too, like De Soto, had acquired the love of a young and
beautiful woman; he had formed ties equally precious, which he
was about to abandon at the calls of ambition; and though his
state was neither secure, nor his possessions great like those of the
latter, yet the imputation, in some degree, lay against him, of a
like disregard to the claims of duty and domestic life. He answered
Olivia after the usual manner of knight-errants.

“And how else, dear lady, can chivalry display itself, unless

by deeds of arms and conquest? It is by these deeds and this
conquest, that it brings home tribute to Beauty, and crowns love
with its proper jewels. It is to make love secure in state and
home, and refresh its bowers with lasting delight, that it encounters
peril for a season, the laurels and rewards of which shall endure
through future years. Love is not abandoned when the worshipper
carries ever with him in his heart a passionate devotion,
which makes him cry upon the beloved one's name in the storm of
battle, and pray for her prayers in the tempests of the deep, which
prompts him to build for her a temple in waste places, and to enwreathe
chaplets of her favorite flowers in forests which she may
never see. His devotion even warms with distance, and he remembers
her beauties and her virtues the better when he no
longer may enjoy them. If he goes forth, it is with the purpose
that he may return full-handed with spoils, that he may lay at
her feet in guerdon of his faith and homage.”

“Ah! Señor, you phrase it well, and it is such fine eloquence
that for a season reconciles the poor heart of woman to too many
of the errantries of chivalry. For me, I confess, 'twould better
please me should my knight leave to others the storm of battle
and the peril of the seas. Let me have the devotions of his
heart at the altars of home, rather than in the forests of the
Floridian. Let me have the idol of my eyes always present to
my sight. I should not need that he should wander away from
my eyes to be able to recall his virtues and grow fond of his
devotion.”

“Oh! Fie, Olivia, dear,—you have no sort of idea of what
belongs to true chivalry. Why, true chivalry lives on fighting
and conquest, on long wanderings over sea and land, into places
that were never heard of before, seeking all sorts of enemies to
overthrow, and coming home with treasures of gold, great emeralds,
such as they gather in Peru, and pearls,—pearls by the
bushel. They gather them, Nuno tells me, by the basketful
among the Floridians. Nay, you smile,—but the story comes
from your knights of Portugal—Philip, the elder, has been
among the savages in that country.”

“I have no knights, Leonora, and this reminds me that I have
really no interest in this game of war that is called chivalry.
Let those like it who may. Its splendid shows do not beguile
or satisfy my imagination.”

“Ah! but they will in the tournament, which is at hand.
Don't tell me that you have no knight. I promise you, dear
Olivia, that you will have knights enough to do battle for your
smiles, and to wear your favors. These knights of Portugal
will not be the only ones to break lances in your honor. But let
them beware how they cross with my Nuno. If he does not
unhorse every opponent, I will never, never, never love him any
more. And that's a vow to the Blessed —”

“Don't be rash, Leonora,” interrupted Nuno, with a smile.
“You may punish yourself by such a vow, much more than you
could ever punish me!”

“Ha! How?”

He evaded the query, and went on.

“As for overthrowing these knights of Portugal, it is no easy
matter. I should rather cross lances with any other foes! Philip
de Vasconselos —”

“How! Are you recreant? Will you allow these Portuguese
to pluck the honors from Castile?”

“Nay, nay! not if I can help it. But I should prefer other
hands than mine to make the attempt. The world has few
lances which can safely cross that of Philip de Vasconselos, and
mine, I fear, is not one of them; and I so love the man that I
should find no satisfaction in depriving him of a single glory
that he desires. But something, as you say, is due to the honor
of Castile, and if Philip overthrows all other combatants, he
must have a chance of including me among his captives.”

The eyes of Olivia were cast upon the ground. But her ears
drank in eagerly every syllable which had fallen from the generous
lips of Nuno de Tobar. She did not speak when he had
closed, nor for some time after, but remained apparently a silent
listener to the gay and desultory prattle of Leonora, who, in the
fulness of her heart, assured of her own happiness, and relieved

of all doubts of the future, had given herself up to that fearless
and roving method which but too commonly distinguished her
mercurial temper. She was arrested when about to trench upon
dangerous ground—when about to renew her badinage in regard
to Olivia's feelings for the knights of Portugal,—by the appearance
of one of them. Fortunately, his approach had been heard
in season to prevent her speech.

The visitor was the younger of the two. Andres de Vasconselos
had many of the qualities of his elder brother, Philip. Their
persons were not unlike, their courage and the contour and expression
of their faces. They had both served as well against
the Moors of Spain as the red-men of the western continent.
But Philip, the elder, enjoyed the high distinction of being usually
understood when the family name was mentioned. He had
done famous things under Almagro in Peru. He had once before
traversed the neighboring continent of the Appalachian, at least
as far as Cabeza de la Vaca had carried his explorations. He
was wise, besides, prudent, circumspect and gentle, and these
were virtues to which the younger brother, Andres, had but little
claim. Of Philip we shall say more hereafter. Of Andres, the
world spake with many qualifications. He was described as
proud and passionate—quick of quarrel—arrogant in his assumptions,
and of enormous self-conceit. We have already had it intimated
that he, as well as his brother, was now in doubt whether
to continue in a future progress with the expedition of De Soto.
Yet they had both left Spain with this special object, coming over
to the New World as a portion of the armament. Something of
the reason for their change of purpose has already been suggested.
They had, in fact, found but little encouragement from
the adelantado,—less, perhaps, because of his inappreciation of
their merits—for he thought of the brothers very highly—as in
consequence of the bigotry and jealousy of the Spanish Chieftains—their
clannish prejudices, and a somewhat painful sense of
their inferiority, at least, to the elder of the knights of Portugal.
The neglect of De Soto had followed, perhaps, inevitably on this
feeling of his people. The brothers had been offered no distinctions

in the army, and as their military passion became cooled,
that of love made its appearance to assist in usurping the place of
the former in their bosoms. Unhappily, their affections were
fixed upon the same lady. The devotion of Andres de Vasconselos
led him almost nightly to her dwelling. Philip was a frequent
visitor; but he so chose his periods as seldom to cross his
brother's progress. Andres little knew how much he owed to
this forbearance. He was slow to perceive, what was seen by all
the island, that, if the heart of Olivia de Alvaro inclined to either,
he certainly was not the suitor whom she most preferred. His
self-esteem was not willing to accept any such humiliating suggestion.

Olivia naturally received him with respect and kindness. She
felt uneasy at his attentions, but she respected him because of her
attachment to his brother. It was easy, with his temper, to mistake
the sources of this kindness. But he was not suffered to
presume upon it. A certain dignified but mild reserve, in the
manners of the lady, served to check every feeling of overweening
confidence, and to satisfy the bold gallant that the fortress must
undergo a regular leaguer before the garrison would be persuaded
to surrender. He endeavored accordingly to school his eager desires,
with as much patience as he could command; and to lessen
the duration of the siege, his attacks were rendered more and
more frequent. It was seldom that a night was suffered to pass
without finding him in her presence; and the gentleness of her reception,
and the sweetness of her manners, seldom suffered him
to leave her without giving his eager vanity sufficient assurance
of favorable progress. She beheld this confidence with pain, and
her reserves were increased accordingly;—but as these never put
on harsh aspects, nothing was done to arrest the self-delusion of
the lover.

A little awkwardness succeeded his first appearance within the
circle. Nuno de Tobar was the friend of Philip de Vasconselos
rather than his brother. He had never been altogether satisfied
with the latter. He was aware of the attachment of both for
his fair hostess—perhaps suspected the nature of her feelings for

his friend—and knew, besides, that the younger brother had
already begun to regard his senior with a feeling of rivalry.
Andres was naturally jealous of one whom he had reason to believe
was in his brother's confidence; while Nuno de Tobar,
though fond of Philip de Vasconselos, had anything but a friendly
feeling for Andres. The imperious temper of the latter had, more
than once, brought them to the verge of quarrel. Their interchange
of civilities on the present occasion was cold and formal;
and, though the fair hostess, seeing the feeling between them,
made an amiable effort to interest the party, still the atmosphere
for a while grew oppressive from mere stiffness and formality.
But the confidence of Andres de Vasconselos was of a sort not to
permit this influence to prevail to his discomfiture; and a perseverance
that suffered no discouragement from a freezing answer,
was soon rewarded by a conversation, which, if not actually animated,
was yet sufficiently so to keep the scene from becoming
absolutely oppressive. By a strong effort of will, for which her
previous exercise had not often prepared her, Olivia took a reasonable
share in the dialogue, and Don Andres was encouraged to
proceed as he found her interest somewhat rising in one of the
subjects which was started. This was the affairs of the army and
the expedition, and naturally enough of the tournament. The
thoughtless speech of Leonora conducted her to an inquiry, the
answer to which drew the eyes of Olivia directly upon the
knight of Portugal.

“They say of thee and of thy brother, Don Andres, that ye
are not minded to proceed on this expedition into the country of
the Floridian?”

“Of what Philip de Vasconselos designs, fair lady, it would be
presumption in me to conjecture. Of my own purpose I can
say nothing, but that it is still subject to such moods as may prevail
with me when the adelantado is about to depart.”

“Well, for my part, I see not how such brave cavaliers, well renowned
in sword, and battle-axe, and spear, can hold it doubtful
what they shall do when the trumpet invites them to glorious enterprise;
nor do I question that when the signal sounds, thou

wilt be among the first to hear and answer. But, of a surety,
thou wilt not be wanting to the tournament.”

“And yet,” answered the knight of Portugal, with a smile
that might have been mistaken for a sneer, “were it not as great
a rashness if I should venture in a passage at arms with such fortunate
gallants as Don Nuno de Tobar, who wears the favors of
one of the loveliest damsels of Cuba? It will need something
more than skill and valor to render a poor knight of Portugal
successful against the cavaliers of Castile, when they couch spear
under the smiles of the most invincible beauty.”

There was something equivocal in this remark that made Nuno
de Tobar wince, but his betrothed did not perceive it. She went
on, slily glancing, as she spoke, at the pale face of Olivia, which
put on an increasing gravity as she listened.

“Yet seems it to me, Señor, that thou wilt scarcely lack in the
auspices which befriend thy opponent. I doubt not but the
smiles of Beauty will give thee sufficient encouragement. At
least, it is scarcely fitting that a true knight should suffer from
such want.”

The eyes of Andres de Vasconselos followed those of Leonora,
as she looked mischievously in the direction of her friend. The
reference was quite unfortunate. There was no mistaking the
resolute gravity which absolutely gloomed the features of Olivia.
But her face was no longer pale. A warm flush rose
upon her cheeks at the same moment, of the source of which
Don Andres readily deceived himself. His vain and eager fancy
easily construed this flush into a confession of weakness,—and a
proud exulting glance, which he did not seek to restrain, betrayed
to Olivia the delightful conviction which he felt. But her eyes
made no answer to his own, and the flush passing immediately
from her cheeks, was succeeded by an almost mortal paleness,
which was by no means diminished while Andres continued to
speak in answer to the grateful suggestions of Leonora. He had
his reply, full of empressement, to the pleasing insinuation which
she had conveyed, quite as much, perhaps, by the direction of her
glance, as by the language which she had uttered. His reply,

though the mere words might disclaim his sense of triumph, was
yet distinguished by a manner which betrayed the most confident
assurance.

“Alas! Lady Leonora, thou wouldst betray me to my ruin!
Would I could rejoice in any such hope as that which thou encouragest.
But how should it be for me, a poor knight of
Portugal, by no means in favor with your proud nobles of Castile,
to hope for better countenance from her proud and lovely
daughters? Yet the bird will spread his wings for the mansions
of the sun! The fond insect will dart, though it be to perish,
into the blazing flame or pyre;—and I fear that, hopeless of the
glory that I seek, and destined to equal peril in the pursuit, I
too am ambitious of the prize that but mocks my best endeavor.”

“Thou confessest then—thou lovest?” was the eager inquiry
of the gay and thoughtless Leonora.

“Ah! wouldst thou possess thyself of my secret? That were
only to make merry with my weakness. Surely, in the good
fortune which has smiled upon thy heart, it were scarcely generous
to find a pleasure to show to the world the disappointments
which mock the desire now preying hopelessly, perchance, upon
mine.”

“Not hopelessly, not fruitlessly, Señor Andres! Verily,
Señor, that is a speech more gallantly than truly spoken. I will
not believe that thou thinkest so humbly of thy hopes, or of the
noble qualities which thou bring'st into the field, as potent
against the maidens as against the lances of Castile. As I know
that our cavaliers esteem thee one of the best warriors in our
array, so am I sure that our ladies look upon thee with a favor
which does not misbeseem thy reputation as a knight.”

The flattery was not lost upon the person addressed. He was
in the mood to believe every syllable; and indeed, the thoughtless
woman, rating the judgment of her friend by her own, was
well prepared to believe that the preference of Olivia was bestowed
rather upon the younger than the elder brother. Don
Andres was not unwilling to continue a conversation which

seemed to bring him so much nigher to his object. He did not
see the painful constraint which sat upon the features of Olivia.

“Ah!” was his reply. “But he who hath set his affections
upon the bird of paradise, can give but little heed to the plumage
or the strains of inferior songsters.”

His eyes again sought the pale countenance of the maiden
whom he worshipped. Her glance was equally wandering and
sad. Nuno de Tobar saw that she was troubled. He himself
was dissatisfied with the thoughtless play of his betrothed. He
felt its mischievous tendency, and his friendship for Philip de
Vasconselos made him unwilling to behold a progress on the
part of his brother which was adverse to his own. He interfered
to effect a diversion of the topic, which the fanciful allusion
of Don Andres now enabled him to do without an effort.

“Talking of birds and singing, dear Lady Olivia, reminds me
that in the cares of the camp, and in my long term of disfavor,
I have not enjoyed thy music for a weary season. I pray thee,
favor us with some one of those many ditties which never come
with due effect save from those who feel them. I would I could
persuade thee to one of those antique ballads of El Cid; but I
will not ask thee, remembering the flat denial which thou gavest,
in my presence, to that fine courtier, De Sinolar, when he craved
the ballad of Urraca, and the Moor who lost Valencia. Nathless,
some other strain, I pray thee, if it be only to persuade
Doña Leonora that Nuno de Tobar is not so entirely her slave
that he dare not seek a favor at the hands of another beauty. I
trust, Señor Andres, that thy ear, like mine, is accessible to all
the charms of music.”

“Verily, Señor,” was the reply, “that depends entirely on the
bird that signs. There are some whose plumage makes marvelously
against their strains. That thou hast had the wit to entreat
from the Lady Olivia that bounty which it has been my first
thought to solicit, is a great vexation. But I must content myself
now with repeating thy entreaty.”

The cavaliers both looked pleadingly to Olivia as they spoke.
But she needed no second soliciting. She was not one of those

whose vanity requires persuasion, as well as audience; besides,
she was only too anxious to escape a further dialogue, which
pained her something more than either of the parties present
could imagine. She was not one of that common company who
delight in the imputation, so grateful to the vulgar damsel, of
conquests which they have made; and resented naturally, as offensive
no less to decency than good taste, a reference of this
nature in the presence of the very person who is suspected of feeling
their authority. But there were deeper sensibilities besides
these at work with her bosom, to prompt her to revolt at the conversation,
and the diversion of Nuno de Tobar was eagerly seized
upon as affording relief to troubled feelings. She had already
taken the guitar ere Don Andres had finished speaking, and, after
a few soft prelusive touches, with a voice that trembled with her
emotions, though full of compass and power, she sang in the
happiest style of art, yet with the most easy execution, the following
ballad, which seemed in some degree designed as a commentary
upon the preceding conversation:

AMINA.

The song was finished; and as the maiden laid the instrument
aside, a storm of gentle reproaches fell upon her ear, as well from
Nuno de Tobar as from the youthful knight of Portugal.

“Nay, nay!” exclaimed the fair Leonora de Borbadilla—“heed
her not, heed her not! She thinks not as she sings. She has
chosen this ballad in a perverse spirit, only to mock what I have
been saying. She is sworn in her secret heart, well I know,
against all such inhuman selfishness. Out upon your damsels like
Amina! She was but a Moorish damsel, I trow, and her heart
was given up to heathen divinities.”

“And love himself is one of them,” said De Tobar archly.

“Not our love, Don Nuno—not the love known to chivalry,
and before whose altars the true knight first buckles on his spurs.
He hath his birth in the gay regions of Provençe—a cavalier himself,
belted and spurred, with the addition of a pair of wings. See
you what John of Nostrodamus writes of him, and you will be
satisfied that he is not of heathen origin—a pure Christain, a noble
and a gentle—from whom comes the religion of the belted
knight.”

And the Portuguese chaunted the original description from the
ballad of the Troubadour.

“Censure not the Moor,” said Olivia to Leonora gently—“you
know not that I somewhat share in the blood of that misguided
people.”

“But not of the infidel?” replied the other with a sort of holy
horror, crossing herself devoutly as she spoke.

“No, surely, but of a family that haply beheld the blessed
light of the Christian Church, and of their own free will sought
baptism. But the ballad I have sung comes not from the Moor.
It is pure Castilian. The damsel Amina was of the true faith.”

“Ay, lady, but she sang not wisely, knowing the wants of our
sex, and the better virtue in her own. Her ballad is in the perverse
spirit of the Moor, who, with the true heaven in his eye, yet
wilfully turned away his sight. In heart she was but a pagan.
It suits the creed of one who found in his slave the thing of his
affections. Of such only is it permitted to think ill of knighthood,
and to stifle all the free faith in the heart of woman. It suits for
a reproach to a race of misbelievers, who, though they bore themselves
manfully enough in battle, were yet little familiar with the
laws of Christian chivalry. The true knight loves not less the
treasure because it hath been won. If he keeps it no longer in
his eye, it is because he hath conveyed it to his heart. If he
boasts no longer of its beauty, it is because he fears to tempt the
avarice of others to seek his treasure. If he sings no longer in
her praise, it is because, when he hath wholly given himself up to
her charms, as he doth by marriage, he hath said the most in her
honor that could be spoken. Verily, I repeat, your Amina was
but a wretched heathen in heart, cold and selfish, and her doctrine
is only true of a people who believe with the infidel.”

Such was the eloquent commentary of Don Andres, conveyed
in a manner at once spirited and graceful.

“Thou hast made a right good and proper defence of thy sex
and mine, Don Andres,” exclaimed Leonora, “and I trow thou
wilt never lack lady's favor to grace thy helmet in the fields of
tourney. Thou wilt take thy part, I trust, in the tournament
which the adelantado has appointed; thou and thy valiant brother,
even if ye go not on the enterprise against the Floridian.”

With the mention of his brother, the eyes of Don Andres were
seen suddenly to sparkle with a keen and fiery expression. Nuno
de Tobar, knowing the conscious rivalry that existed between the

two, watched him with interest, but said nothing. But Don Andres
was not so forbearing.

“Philip de Vasconselos must answer for himself,” said he,
somewhat equivocally—“we are both of us sufficiently old to
adopt our resolutions without much consultation with one another.”

With these words he passed quickly from the subject. The
evening was not much longer protracted, and soon De Tobar and
his betrothed took their departure, leaving the knight of Portugal
behind them. They were not conscious, as they descended the
verandah into the groves leading from the dwelling, of the movements
of another who led the way through the shady thickets.
This was no other than Philip de Vasconselos himself. Let us
not imagine that he had been a listener. He had been making
his way to the abode of Olivia, when arrested, almost on the
threshold, by the voice of his brother. He was about to retire,
as he had usually done under the same circumstances.

“Let him have all the chances,” he murmured to himself, as
he turned away. “He was the youngest born of our mother,
and had her fondest blessing. It were a grievous sorrow if he
had not mine.”

Just then the voice of Olivia in song, detained his departing
footsteps. He leaned sadly against a tree while he listened to
the satirical ballad with which the damsel had answered the solicitations
of his brother. The sentiment of the ballad was no
less ungracious in his ears than in those of Andres; and yet
there was a secret feeling of satisfaction in the heart of Philip,
that the ditty had been chosen in response to the prayer of a
rival. He retired, with mingled feelings, from his place of watch,
as the song ended, and strolled slowly through the alleys. In a
little while he heard the footsteps and the voices of De Tobar and
his companion, behind him, and perceived, with a pang, that his
brother did not accompany them. His pace was hurriedly increased.
He felt all the delicious opportunity which Andres
enjoyed, and readily conjectured that it was with a special purpose
that the latter remained after the departure of her other guests.

“Well!” he murmured to himself sadly, “be it so! If he

hath the word with which to win her, she is his! I will not envy
my brother. I would I had the strength to pray that he might
be successful. He hath wronged me—he will still wrong me—
and I will submit. He shall find in me no willing rival, whether
in love or war. Our mother gave him to my care. I will think
of her love, though he may never do justice to mine.”

The field was clear before Andres de Vasconselos. He was
alone with the woman whom he loved. He was not the
man to lose time, or dally long in a fruitless attendance at the
shrine of his devotions without making his petition heard. He
was one of those impetuous spirits whose fierce and eager will, in the
assertion of its desires, is apt to blind to the prospect of defeat—
to all prospect save that which is beheld through the medium
of a passionate and almost frenzied hope. Scarcely had Nuno de
Tobar and his betrothed disappeared, before he was at the feet
of Olivia. But not for us to watch the progress of the brief but
exciting scene which followed. Let it suffice that ere many
minutes had elapsed, Andres de Vasconselos was also speeding
away from the abode, darting headlong through the perfumed
alleys which surrounded it, and hurrying almost madly in the
direction of the neighboring hills.

With his disappearance, Don Balthazar de Alvaro once more
emerged from the cover of the neighboring thicket. His espionage
over his niece and her visitors seems to have been continued
throughout the evening. He had been sufficiently near, in his
place of concealment, to behold all that had taken place, and to
hear every syllable that was spoken. An exulting expression
was kindled in his face, and his satisfaction at the result was audibly
expressed.

“So far it is well! He hath his quietus. I had expected this;
but it is something to be sure. That danger is passed. There is
yet another, and a greater! Were I as confident of the answer she
would make to the prayer of Philip as of Andres—nay, were I
not so confident—I should feel at rest. This accursed anxiety!
It leaves me almost a coward. But I must arm myself for the
worst, and against the final struggle. It will come, and I must be

prepared. Olivia de Alvaro must wed with neither of these
knights of Portugal. She must wed with none. The hour that finds
her a bride, finds me —. But it shall never come to this;
we must baffle him, or he must perish. Both shall perish ere
she wed this man!”

Did Olivia dream of the near neighborhood of her uncle all this
while! Could she fancy what were his resolves and reflections, in
respect to her future fate and fortunes! It might almost seem
that she did from the pallid features of her face, the big tears
swelling in her eyes, the drooping self-abandonment with which,
as soon as Andres de Vasconselos had disappeared, she suffered
herself to fall back upon the couch, her hands covering her face,
and, as it were, seeking to stifle the deep moan of agony which
perforce escaped from her lips. The sound reached Don Balthazar
in his place of concealment. Slowly he receded from the
spot and disappeared in the more distant shrubbery. He had
not the heart to meet her at that moment.