University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Thus dreaming, the sleep of Olivia de Alvaro was fortunately
a protracted one. Nature, thus, asserts for herself some happy
hours, even in a life which is one of unfailing sorrows. She slept
late. In the meantime, the girl Juana had been several times in
her chamber. Her movements finally awakened the sleeper, who
found that the day had considerably advanced. The morning repast
was already awaiting her. She arose, and her toilet was assisted
by the girl in waiting. This performed, Olivia dismissed
her, preferring to take her breakfast alone. A portion of this
she hurriedly put from sight, to be thrown away, or otherwise
disposed of, at a fitting opportunity. Meanwhile, she pacified her
appetite by a free use of the cates which she had appropriated
from the stores of the old woman. A more buoyant feeling prevailed
in her bosom, the natural effect of the temporary security
which she felt. She had found a respite—had gained time—which,
in the case of youth, is always felt to be a gain of importance.
At all events, she was for so many hours safe, so she thought, from
the dangers of that drugging influence which, for a long time, had
been sapping her strength, and placing her completely at the
mercy of those who had so terribly abused their advantages and
power. Juana reappeared, removed the breakfast things, and
proceeded to her household duties. Olivia, all this while, saw
nothing of her uncle; and finally ascertained that he had left the
dwelling at an early hour for the city. Her hope was, that, as
was usually the case, she would see no more of him during the

day. To be free from his presence was now always a source of
relief to her. Whether she thought more favorably of the presence
of another we may conjecture only; but we may mention
that towards noon she proceeded to make her toilet anew, and
seemingly with some regard to visitors. Her dress was carefully
selected, and as carefully adjusted. She wore a rich necklace of
pearls; and a bandeau of pearls encircled her forehead, twined
tastefully in with the dark tresses of her glossy hair. She was,
amidst all her grief, as the Greek poet describes Electra in her
mourning, who clipt only the “extremity of her locks,” “heedful
of beauty, the same woman still!” Alas, Olivia de Alvaro was
still a child only,—scarcely more than seventeen. Grief, and a
terribly depressing sense of shame, had done much towards maturing
her passions. But she had enjoyed too little communion
with the world to have done much towards maturing her intellect.
She felt shame and sorrow, but she felt love also; and
girlhood was still strong within her; and hope was not wholly
crushed within her heart. Yet, even while she habited her person
as if with an eye to charm, she was troubled with misgivings
such as, more than once, caused her to droop and sadden,
and finally sink down upon her couch, and give way to a full flood
of sorrows. What right had she to hope; what hope to be happy;
how presume to dream of the precious affections of another,
when these could be given with the presumption only that she
was fully deserving of them all! The very truthfulness of her
own passion prompted this just consideration of what was due to
the affections of another. But youth and girlhood, and her own
desires, finally triumphed. She rose amidst her tears. She completed
her toilet. She arranged her tresses, and arrayed her jewels
for conquest. Why should she not love, and loving, why not
hope? Was not her love sufficiently warm,—her soul sufficiently
devoted,—to render Philip de Vasconselos happy? She had, it
is true, a secret, which it would be fatal to her hope were he to
know; but how should he ever know?—And, “O! Blessed Virgin,”
she exclaimed, looking up at the benign mother, “am I to
perish for the cruel deeds, the guilty passions of another!”

It was not difficult, though the subject of a long, secret struggle
in her own soul, to reconcile herself to a conviction which
promised her the happiness which she desired. Her passion
proved too strong for her conscientiousness, and her reasons
readily gave themselves, as they but too commonly do, to the
requisitions of the former. Her philosophy is probably that of
thousands in like situations. The fond heart of woman is too
much dependent for its life on the affections, not to be easily
persuaded by an argument which sustains the cause of the latter.
The love which Olivia felt for Philip de Vasconselos was too
precious to her soul to yield in such a struggle; and the result
was, that she determined, though with shuddering and trembling,
should he offer her his hand, to subdue her fears, her sense of
justice, all scruples of whatever sort, and accept the blessing
which her heart craved as its very breath of life. What could
her uncle do? What could he dare? The word from his lips
that would blast her, would seal his own ruin and disgrace forever!
She would be true to Philip, as true as woman ever yet
was to man;—he would protect her from all abuse and outrage
—would rescue her from the hostile power from which she had
most reason to fear both; and in the pure devotion of the future,
might she not hope to repair the misfortunes of the past in which
she could conscientiously affirm, that, however much she might
have been the victim of the guilty, she had never been wittingly
the participator in his crime?

Soothed, if not wholly satisfied, assured in some degree, by the
solacing sort of argument through which her mind had past, Olivia
proceeded to the latticed verandah, and from thence descended
into the shrubbery. Ah! the innocent flower! ah! the unconscious
bloom, and the unsuspected blossom! How they appealed
to her! and whispered—such whispers as made her turn away
from them with averted head, while upon her pale cheek there
might have been seen a flush as deep and vivid as a warm sunset
in a humid sky. She returned to the verandah, closing its
lattices, letting down its curtains, and shutting out the sharper
glances of the day. Then she threw herself upon the settee of

wicker-work and cane, and covered her sad eyes with her hands
in a sorrowful meditation. Leaving her thus abstracted for
awhile, let us proceed to other parties.

That morning, Philip de Vasconselos had eaten his humble
meal alone, and in silence. Andres was absent; whither he
knew not, and the younger brother was of a temper, and just
now in such a mood, that it was only a safe policy in the elder,
not to seem too curious in any of his affairs. Philip, though
naturally and humanely troubled about the fate of Andres,
sympathizing with him very sincerely in his disappointments,
was yet too human to be deeply grieved by the one misfortune
—over all—which his brother felt, in the denial of his mistress.
It would not, indeed, have been quite in nature, not to have felt
his own hopes revive pleasurably at the knowledge. He was
conscious of an exulting feeling in his bosom, accordingly;
which, knowing its source, he labored, though unsuccessfully, to
school and to rebuke. But this labor did not prevent him from
making his toilet that morning with extreme care, and resolving
to visit the fair Olivia. In this purpose he was seconded by the
counsels of the gay gallant Nuno de Tobar, who suddenly broke
in upon him, and finding him alone, gave free vent to his encouragements.
Somehow, he too had heard of the defeat of Andres,
and he urged it as one of the signs in favor of his friend. But
Philip shook his head gravely. He valued the Lady Olivia too
highly to fancy that she would be easy of attainment. His passion
was too earnest, not to prompt him to a very severe questioning
of his own merits, and to this effect was his reply to
Tobar. But the latter loudly denounced his excessive modesty,
and urged a thousand proofs, each conclusive to his own audacious
spirit, for the encouragement of his friend. In the end, they
proceeded together to the dwelling of the lady.

In the meanwhile, her uncle had suddenly made his appearance,
bringing with him another visitor. This was a gaily dressed
cavalier, sufficiently comely of person, and smooth of face,
to be satisfied with himself; but who possessed few distinguishing
traits by which to compel attention or respect. Still, if

Olivia was to wed with any body, this was the person whom her
uncle was most pleased to tolerate. He may have had special
reasons for this preference. Such, at least, was the belief of
Olivia, to whom Don Balthazar had more than once spoken on
the subject. He himself frequently afforded to the young gallant
the means of being with his niece in private. Don Augustin
de Sinolar was one of the passable gentlemen that go to make
up what is called good society. He came of respectable family,
enjoyed respectable possessions, obeyed the usual laws of fashion,
and never trespassed upon the proprieties of the circle. He was
confident of speech, and was always in possession of the latest
intelligence which could please the persons present by disparaging
the absent. He was no less devotedly the lover of Olivia
than were the brothers Vasconselos—that is, so far as concerned
the externals of devotion. But the essentials of an earnest passion,
of any sort, were not within the nature of De Sinolar.
He was of marriageable years and person, and an establishment
was necessary to his position, a wife was necessary to his establishment,
and he required rank as a first condition in the damsel
he should espouse. Other requisites were wholly subordinate.
The ordinary secret of this ordinary gentleman, who, even in the
workings of his passions, obeys rigidly a conventional arrangement,
was that which made his policy; and to do the agreeable to
his mistress, as a carpet knight, was the extent of his performance
in the effort to secure favor. Had Olivia been of a like
temper, De Sinolar would have proved a formidable rival to
either of the Portuguese brothers. The small graces of society,
the tea-table heroics, were in the possession of neither. Philip
de Vasconselos was particularly deficient in such arts. He was
of a grave, calm, reserved nature, too earnestly in love to
meditate his conquests by any ordinary means. He could only
show, as he did without his own consciousness, perhaps, how precious
in his eyes was the object of his passion. The woman of
heart soon distinguishes between two such suitors, and if she determines
in favor of either, does not hesitate long in declaring for
him whose earnestness is congenial with her own. It is the woman,
whose character has been too feeble to withstand the coercive
shaping of fashion merely, who is usually caught by him who
is cool enough always to make himself agreeable simply as a
companion.

The two friends found De Sinolar in possession of the ground,
and eagerly displaying to the eyes of the languid Olivia a collection
of silks and shawls, which he had purchased for the approaching
tourney. The entrance of Don Philip and De Tobar
afforded De Sinolar an opportunity of dilating to a larger audience
upon the excellence of his tastes in the choice of silks and
colors. De Tobar lent him a ready attention, the better to
afford his friend the desired opportunities with Olivia. Her eye
was cast down, but brightened, at his approach. He was not
annoyed at the presence of the others, since it was not his purpose
yet to approach the subject of his passion. The encouraging
assurances of his friend had failed as yet to prompt him so soon
to peril his hope upon the question. He seated himself near her,
however, and spoke to her in those subdued tones which are so
grateful to the ears of lovers; his deep, grave, almost sad glance,
looking all the while, as it were, down into her heart. She caught a
glimpse of this look, but suffered herself only a moment's gaze.
That moment was enough to remind her of her dreams by night,
when she had seen the same sweet, sad, soliciting glances gazing
upon her from the place which was occupied by the picture of
the Virgin. The approaching departure of the expedition for
Florida became naturally the subject of conversation, and afforded
a clue to De Sinolar, which prompted him to leave for awhile
his satins.

“Ah! yes! we shall shortly hear of your departure, Señor,”
said he; “and yet, by the way, I know not if I rightly include
you in the expedition. They say, Señor, that you have not yet
declared whether you accompany Don Hernan or not; and
some say, again, that you have half resolved not to go. Can it
be so? Now one should think that there could be no doubt about
your purpose. Else why should you come from Portugal, to

the new Indies, if it were not to better fortune by conquest
among the savages?”

“Unless,” answered Tobar, with a laugh, “he might better
fortune by a conquest among the saints;”—and he looked mischievously
at Olivia as he spoke.

De Sinolar was for a moment at fault.

“Among the saints!—I don't see. Oh! yes! among the
ladies! Saints and angels! yes! well, that were certainly less
dangerous warfare, and one that I much prefer myself. If that
is the game of Don Philip, he is wiser, I am free to confess, than
most soldiers of my knowing. They have, methinks, precious
small value of ladies' favors; and show but little wisdom accordingly.
I beg you ten thousand pardons, Señor Don Philip,
but I am bold to say I have regarded you as too much of the
warrior to give heed to beauty—too fond of the tilt and spear,
to hold in overmuch estimation the darts from lady's eyes, and
the wounds they give;—wounds, I say it from my soul's experience,
such as no army surgeon can be found to heal!”

Here he smote his bosom affectedly, and looked to Olivia;
but her eyes were upon the floor. Even the sigh of the gallant,
which followed his speech, was lost upon her heedless senses.
They were all alive, however, the next moment, as the deep
tones of Vasconselos answered De Sinolar.

“You do me wrong, Don Augustin, and you do the character
of the noble warrior wrong, if you assume either me, or him, to
be insensible to the charms of love, or the claims of beauty.
Perhaps, it is the valiant man only, who is always prepared to
sacrifice himself where he hates, who feels love to be a sufficient
power to command self-sacrifice, if need be, also. But I trow there
can be no occasion for me now to defend the tenderness and softness
of the warrior's heart, which hath been sufficiently instanced
in all stages of the world, and is a thing usually acknowledged
among all classes of men. And for the soldier's regard for beauty,
what need have we to look beyond a present instance? For
what is this tournament provided, for which you are preparing

these brilliant colors and silks, but that the valor of the soldier
may make grateful appeal to the smiles of love and beauty?”

He paused. Olivia, looking down the while, said in low tones—

“But, Señor, you have not yet answered to the doubts of Don
Augustin, touching your departure with the expedition.”

“Ah! true,” quoth De Sinolar—“They say that there are
doubts, yet was it my thought that Don Hernan had shown you
the better argument.”

“They say rightly, Señorita,” replied Vasconselos to Olivia,
and scarcely noticing De Sinolar—“who say that I have yet determined
nothing. I am truly but half resolved to depart, yet
fully half inclined to remain. There be private reasons for
this uncertainty. Whether Don Hernan will succeed in persuading
me—and it is one of my doubts if he desires so to do
—will greatly rest upon the force of other and opposite persuasions
than those of war. Perhaps, it were only wise with me,
to yield blindly to Don Hernan's arguments, and look nothing
farther.”

It was the tone with which this last sentence was spoken, and
the look which accompanied, which held the meaning more significantly
than the words themselves. The sweet, sad resignation
in both went direct to the heart of Olivia. But she cast
her eyes upon the floor and remained silent. But De Sinolar,
who was conscious of nothing but the words spoken, and who was
no adept in looking below the surface of any thing, proceeded in
his usual manner.

“Well, Señor, it will be needful that you should decide shortly.
In a few days we shall have the tournament, and in a few
more, the caravels will be all ready to receive the armament.
Then will you embark the horses and artillery. These the first.
Then will the foot soldiers go on board, and at the last the
knights and gentlemen. They are baking famous quantities of
bread, even now, at Roja's, and la Granja's. The adelantado is
eager to be at work among the heathen savages, stripping the
gold from the altars and the treasure from the rich cities of the
Apalachian. Ah! Lady Olivia, when these things are going on,

we shall be as dull and quiet here as if we had never known
either dance or music.

“These gay knights will all be on the path of conquest. Well!
For my part, I say let them conquer! I have no passion for conquest,
and I have no faith in its fruits. I believe them to be all
delusions. One man gets off with a sound head and a full pocket,
but a hundred pays for him with deadly wounds, broken limbs,
and beggary forever! If one could be sure that he should be
the one, and not one of the hundred, why, it were pleasant to
adventure; but where there's but one white bean to a score of
black ones, I'm not the man to draw, if I can help it.”

“But the fame, Señor—the glory?” said Olivia.

“Fame and glory! They will neither plaister my head,
mend my limbs, nor find me in rations. My repartimiento, here,
answers all my ambition. It lacks but a mistress to be all the
empire I demand, and she, with the blessing of the Virgin, I hope
some day to find willing to my hands.”

And here he looked with a sudden tenderness towards Olivia.

“And have you never felt the eager desire for battle, Señor?”
quoth Tobar:—“That joyous desire for the strife of swords and
the crash of lances, which makes the head throb with delirium,
and the heart bound as if it had wings of its own, and was about
to soar to heaven—that feeling which the adelantado hath happily
described, from some old heathen Greek or Roman, as `the
rapture of the strife.'”

“No! indeed! no such raptures for me. Any other sort of
rapture in preference! Let it be eating, or drinking, or dancing,
or loving—I care not how vulgar or how simple—the bull-ring,
the cock-pit—nay, the siesta,—any thing but the shouts and the
struggle of combatants. The tournament is enough for me. I've
tried that. I'll try it no more. When I want to break a lance,
I have only to sally out into the mountains after some of my
runaways. I use a blunt spear on such occasions. Then, I charge
valiantly enough. Then, I overthrow and make captive. I don't
kill unless I can't help myself; since it is more profitable and
pleasant to beat my Indians than to bury them.”

“Your humanity is commendable, Señor,” was the somewhat
cold response of Vasconselos, who, indeed, had scarcely heeded
what the other had been saying; and now turned from him with a
contempt which was sufficiently apparent. But the other was by
no means discomfited by an expression which he clearly beheld.
He replied very promptly and very indifferently, as if his social
position—his wealth—put him quite beyond reproach.

“Ah! you scarcely mean that, I know, Señor Don Philip:
but it matters nothing. I don't care who knows that I am resolved
to live while I can, and risk no bones upon reputation.
If heads are to be cloven, let them take the hardest: if brains
are to be scattered, it needs only that you choose such as can waste
little: if hard blows are to be struck, get those men only for
the work who have been trained to the boucan. If you love
fighting, Don Philip, it is well for you: not for me. I love it
not. You have tried your hand at it, and it suits you. You
have fought against the Moors. You have already had a taste
of Floridian fighting, and I have seen you carry yourself, even
sportively, against Bartolomeo de Gallegos, and Señor Nuno,
here, and I am free to confess that you are the last person whom
I should entreat to a supper of blades and lances. I am only at
conflict with gentle woman,” smiling sweetly on Olivia;—“and
leave the pagan to such brave knights as yourself. By the way,
Señor Don Philip, they tell me you served with Francis Pizarro
in Peru! I had forgotten that.”

“It mattered not,” answered Vasconselos coldly.

“Now there is a man for you, that Francis Pizarro. He's
the rough customer for a weak stomach. He's what I call a
hero! Talk of Cortez, indeed! How should Hernan Cortez
be a hero? I've seen him a hundred times when he was nothing
but a farmer, and had a hacienda not half the value of my own.
He was lucky, Señor—very lucky. I remember him well. I
was but a boy when he worked his farm and drove his mule,
like any other peasant,—though they make him now a born
nobleman; and how could he have got these great honors, were
it not for the blind fortune that puts one man on the horse while

his betters hold the stirrups? No! no! If there be a truly
great man of these days and countries, it is of a certainty the
noble Marquis Pizarro.”

Nuno de Tobar could scarcely restrain his angry impatience
while the fopling continued to discourse thus freely of the great
masters in the art of war, whom in that day it was the fashion
to commend as above all Greek and Roman fame, and he sharply
responded to the flippancies of De Sinolar in respect to Cortez.
Vasconselos, on the contrary, gave him little heed, and seemed
not to think it necessary to gainsay his opinions. He was content
that he should “rabble on,” as it afforded him an opportunity
to murmur a quiet remark, in under tones, to his fair companion,
whose responses, brief and timid, were always delivered
in like subdued accents. It was only when his stock of small
talk was entirely exhausted that Don Augustin was content to
take his departure. This he did, when, at the close of a long
rambling speech, he had emptied his budget of accumulations;
what he said being only a repetition of what he had heard. He
did not seem to apprehend any danger from leaving the field to
his rival; persuading himself that Vasconselos, though good
enough where lances were splintered, possessed too few resources
of the courtier to make much progress where the game depended
on the ease of the dialogue and the liveliness of the humor.

His departure was a relief to all the parties. Nuno de Tobar
soon after rose, and upon some plea of flowers, passed from the
apartment into the garden. The lovers were alone together. A
wild thrill shot through the soul of Olivia at the consciousness.
Her cheek flushed—her frame trembled with emotion. But she
knew that she was watched—that the eyes of Don Balthazar
were upon her from some quarter—that love had no security in
that House of Fear. Vasconselos was free, of course, of all
such apprehensions. He knew that Don Balthazar had entered
the house with De Sinolar, but, as he had seen nothing of him
after, he presumed that he had quitted it, or was elsewhere employed.
He drew nigher to where she sate.

“The departure of this expedition, which threatens so much to

lessen the pleasures of the ladies of Cuba, will give but little
concern, I fancy, to you, Señorita.”

“And wherefore not, Señor?”

“You take little delight, I fear, in such exercises as challenge
the best regards of knighthood. I have seen you at very few
of the gentle passages between the knights.”

“True; but I am not insensible. I have heard full reports
of their performances, and found delight in the accounts of such
grace and valor, and courtesy and skill, as has been rarely seen.”

“Yet would I have beheld you, Señorita, among the gay beauties
of this island court, who have stimulated courtesy by their
grace, and prompted achievement to great things by their approving
smiles. I have looked for you, Señorita, very often,
and,—may I say it,—have sometimes left the field, as, seeing
you not, it has seemed to me to lack its best attraction.”

“Ah! Señor, it is the wont of Cavaliers to use this sort of
speech to foolish damsels. And why should you leave a field,
where there have been so many beauties to cheer, and so many
sweet voices to encourage?”

“Yet was there one, of all,—one only, lady, whom I most
desired to behold.”

“Ah! and why should the Señor Philip be insensible to the
praises which have daily hailed his passages on every hand?
Who has won the applauses and the prizes at the several tourneys?
Whose lance hath been most honored in the conflict?—whose
name been most sounded?—in whose fame have the multitude
raised most frequently the shout of acclamation?”

“Alas! lady, all these tributes are of little value in the ears
of Philip de Vasconselos, compared with the sweeter assurances
that might fall from the lips of one, the loveliest virgin of all Cuba!”

The eyes of Vasconselos were fastened tenderly, as he spoke,
upon those of Olivia. Hers sunk, bashfully, beneath his glance;
and a warm red flush quickly overspread her cheeks. Her hand lay
beside him upon the sofa, which she partly occupied. His fingers
fell hesitatingly upon it; and it was not withdrawn. She was

silent—the beatings of her heart were audible, and his bosom
rose also and sunk, in impetuous responses, to the excited emotions
which seemed to prevail in hers. He continued, more
eagerly, and more tenderly.

“It may be that mine is the sin of presumption, lady; but of
a truth it were a somewhat pardonable sin, since its hope is of
favor at the shrine of as chaste and holy a passion—”

The hand was instantly withdrawn, and so hastily, as evidently
to surprise the pleader. He looked inquiringly into her
face, and, as he did so, her cheeks paled so suddenly, and to such
an ashen white, that Vasconselos feared she was about to faint.
But she recovered herself with great effort, yet not so completely
as to prevent a sudden sobbing, like that of an infant in
its sleep, from escaping into sound.

“You are ill, Señorita; or am I so unhappy as to have offended
you?”

“You have not offended me, Señor Philip,—oh! no!” was the reply,
tremulously and hastily spoken—“a momentary pain only.”

He paused, waiting on her with a gentle and sweet solicitude
that allowed no change in her face to escape his eyes. Hers
sunk beneath his survey, and her cheeks were again suffused
with blushes. This seemed a grateful omen to the knight of
Portugal. He resumed his pleading—his hand again rested
upon her own; and hers was unwithdrawn, in spite of the gentle
pressure which detained it. She looked downwards as he
pleaded.

“I trust, dear Señorita, I have not spoken too rashly. Better
that I were dumb forever than now to offend. But, indeed, you
must suffer me to speak. Indeed, you must hear me. Ah! if
you but knew, Señorita, how pure is the tribute of affection
which I now offer to your charms! Too well I know the chaste
and holy homage which a virgin heart requires—”

The hand was suddenly withdrawn. An hysterical laugh escaped
from the lips of the damsel, as she replied—

“Ah! Señor, you are all too serious. You sadden me much.

In faith, you do; and I must sing to you a merry song ere I grow
gloomy as the night. You shall hear a cheerful ditty, such as will
make you laugh, and make us forget—forget—be very forgetful.”

She would have risen, and motioned to the guitar lying upon a
table; but he held her firmly by the hand. He was bewildered
by her conduct, but grew more and more firm as he contemplated
her. He had seen too much of the world, and of human
nature, not to perceive that there was some mystery in the proceeding.
How else should he account for the feverish hurry of
her manner, at such a moment, so utterly unlike her conduct,
during all other periods?—how, for that sobbing sigh, that convulsive
shudder, and those forced husky accents while delivering
words ostensibly meant to be playful and sportive? Vasconselos
was now not to be deceived. He saw that the gaiety was all
assumed only;—yet wherefore? He was more ready to believe
that there was agony, rather than merriment, in her spirit at that
moment. Then why should she seek to sport with emotions, so
sacred, in his bosom, when she had always before shown him a
respect approaching to reverence? Vasconselos felt instinctively
that the damsel sought under the guise of levity only to conceal
the activity and presence of deep and painful emotions. He felt
and saw all this; but it was not the moment, nor was his the
mood, having advanced thus far, to be diverted from his object.
He still kept his grasp upon her hand. He looked steadily into
her eyes. They answered his gaze wildly. She trembled all
over. He spoke.

“Olivia—lady—I cannot now be baffled—I must speak, and
you must answer me. It is too great a matter, to me—too
vital to my soul's life, to suffer me to be silent longer, or to
leave you without having an answer. Yet you must not suspect
me of unkindness. I see that you suffer. I am not deceived by
this show of merriment. I feel that there is a secret sorrow which
you vainly struggle to conceal—”

“No! no! no secret—I—O! Señor, release me—let me go!”

And she burst into a passion of tears, and buried her face in
her hands upon the arm of the settee. Vasconselos bent over,

clasped one of her hands in his own, and was about to pass his
arm about her waist, when a sudden footstep was heard in the
room. In the same moment Don Balthazar spoke,—but a single
word,—but it sounded in the ears of Olivia like the voice
of the Angel Monkir calling up the dead.

“Olivia!”

She started to her feet—looked wildly in the face of Vasconselos,
who had withdrawn a pace, and was observing Don Balthazar—and
then tottered towards her uncle. Philip darted forward
to help her, when she recovered herself, bowed slightly to
her lover, and followed her uncle from the room. Scarcely had
she got into the passage when Don Balthazar said to her quickly
—and she now observed that his face was very pale—

“When did you see Anita last?”

“Not since last night. Why?”

“She is dead!”

“Dead!”

“Ay, dead! of old age, I suppose. Died in a fit! But go
to her. You will find her in her room. Meanwhile, I will excuse
you to these gentlemen.”

He disappeared. Olivia was frozen to the spot, and speechless.
Her conscious soul was full of nameless terrors. She
too readily divined the cause of the old woman's death, and
though no purpose of crime was in her mind when she mixed
with the contents of the wine-flask the potion from the phial, she
shuddered with such a horror as might well become the guilt of
the murderess. When Don Balthazar returned from speaking
with Vasconselos and his friend, he found Olivia where he had
left her, rather the statue of a frozen woman than a living,
breathing sufferer. He was startled by her evident incapacity,
and putting his arms about her, was about to convey her to her
chamber; but the touch of his fingers recalled her energies. She
revolted from the contact with as great a shuddering as she felt
when first apprised of Anita's death.

“Touch me not!” she exclaimed solemnly—“I will go alone.”

She did go, but not to the sight of the dead woman. She

felt that she could not endure that spectacle. She hurried to her
own chamber, and when there, threw herself half fainting upon
the couch. The new catastrophe, in which she had so much participated,
added to the gloomy horrors which had already taken
such full possession of her soul.