cause it does not import you
so much to know it as me to conceal it. My parents, who are noble and
wealthy, had a son and a daughter; the one for their joy and honour, the
other for the reverse. They sent my brother to study at Salamanca, and
me they kept at home, where they brought me up with all the scrupulous
care becoming their own virtue and nobility; whilst on my part I always
rendered them the most cheerful obedience, and punctually conformed to
all their wishes, until my unhappy fate set before my eyes the son of a
neighbour of ours, wealthier than my parents, and no less noble than
they. The first time I saw him, I felt nothing more than the pleasure
one feels at making an agreeable acquaintance; and this I might well
feel, for his person, air, manners, disposition, and understanding were
the admiration of all who knew him. But why dwell on the praises of my
enemy, or make so long a preface to the confession of my infatuation and
my ruin? Let me say at once that he saw me repeatedly from a window
opposite to mine; whence, as it seemed to me, he shot forth his soul
towards me from his eyes, whilst mine beheld him with a pleasure very
different from that which I had experienced at our first interview, and
one which constrained me to believe that everything I read in his face
was the pure truth.

"Seeing each other in this way led to conversation; he declared his
passion, and mine responded to it, with no misgiving of his sincerity,
for his suit was urged with promises, oaths, tears, sighs, and every
accompaniment that could make me believe in the reality of his devoted
attachment. Utterly inexperienced as I was, every word of his was a
cannon shot that breached the fortress of my honour; every tear was a
fire in which my virtue was consumed; every sigh was a rushing wind that
fanned the destructive flame. In fine, upon his promise to marry me in
spite of his parents, who had another wife in view for him, I forgot all
my maidenly reserve, and without knowing how, put myself into his power,
having no other witness of my folly than a page belonging to Marco
Antonio--for that is the name of the destroyer of my peace--who two days
afterwards disappeared from the neighbourhood, without any person, not
even his parents, having the least idea whither he was gone. In what
condition I was left, imagine if you can; it is beyond my power to
describe it.

"I tore my hair as if it was to blame for my fault, and punished my fa