adies, the
greatness of that love which could submit to captivity; to the loss of
his sword; to the loss of that honor, which, next to god and his mother,
is the true Spaniard's deity. There are those who have suffered that
shame at the hands of valiant gentlemen" (and again Don Guzman looked
up at Rose), "and yet would have sooner died a thousand deaths; but he
dared to endure it from the hands of villains, savages, heathens; for he
was a true Spaniard, and therefore a true lover: but I will go on with
my tale.

"This wretched pair, then, as I have been told by Ruiz Moschera himself,
stood together before the cacique. He, like a true child of the devil,
comprehending in a moment who Don Sebastian was, laughed with delight at
seeing his rival in his power, and bade bind him at once to a tree, and
shoot him to death with arrows.

"But the poor Miranda sprang forward, and threw herself at his feet, and
with piteous entreaties besought for mercy from him who knew no mercy.

"And yet love and the sight of her beauty, and the terrible eloquence of
her words, while she invoked on his head the just vengeance of Heaven,
wrought even on his heart: nevertheless the pleasure of seeing her, who
had so long scorned him, a suppliant at his feet, was too delicate to
be speedily foregone; and not till she was all but blind with tears,
and dumb with agony of pleading, did he make answer, that if she would
consent to become his wife, her husband's life should be spared. She, in
her haste and madness, sobbed out desperately I know not what consent.
Don Sebastian, who understood, if not the language, still the meaning
(so had love quickened his understanding), shrieked to her not to lose
her precious soul for the sake of his worthless body; that death was
nothing compared to the horror of that shame; and such other words as
became a noble and valiant gentleman. She, shuddering now at her own
frailty, would have recalled her promise; but Siripa kept her to it,
vowing, if she disappointed him again, such a death to her husband as
made her blood run cold to hear of; and the wretched woman could only
escape for the present by some story, that it was not the custom of her
race to celebrate nuptials till a month after the betrothment; that the
anger of Heaven would be on her, unless she first performed in solitude
certain religious rites; and lastly, that if he dared to lay hands
on her husband, she would die so resolutely, that every drop of