ll my
mistrust. Once in possession of this paper, I arranged that he should
come to me one night, climb the garden-wall, and enter my chamber, where
he might securely pluck the fruit destined for him alone. The night so
longed for by me at last arrived--"

Up to this point Teodoro had listened with rapt attention, especially
since she had heard the name of Adorno, but now she could contain
herself no longer. "Well," she cried, suddenly interrupting the speaker,
"and then, what did he do? Did he keep the assignation? Were you happy
in his arms? Did he confirm his written pledge anew? Was he content when
he had obtained from you what you say was his? Did your father know it?
What was the end of this good and wise beginning?"

"The end was to bring me to what you see, for he never came."

Teodoro breathed again at these words, and partly recovered her
self-possession, which had been almost destroyed by the frantic
influence of jealousy. Even yet she was not so free from it but that she
trembled inwardly as Leocadia continued her story.

"Not only did he fail to keep the assignation, but a week after I
learned for certain that he had disappeared from home, and carried off
from the house of her parents, persons of distinction in his own
neighbourhood, a very beautiful and accomplished young lady named
Teodosia. I was nearly mad with jealousy and mortification. I pictured
Teodosia to myself in imagination, more beautiful than the sun, more
perfect than perfection itself, and above all, more blissful than I was
miserable. I read the written engagement over and over again; it was as
binding as any form of words could be; but though my hopes would fain
have clung to it as something sacred and inviolable, they all fell to
the ground when I remembered in what company Marco Antonio had departed.
I beat my face, tore my hair, and cursed my fate; but what was most
irksome to me was that I could not practise these self-inflictions at
all hours in consequence of my father's presence. In fine, that I might
be free to indulge my woe without impediment, I resolved to quit my
home. It would seem that the execution of a bad purpose never fails for
want of opportunity. I boldly purloined a suit of clothes belonging to
one of my father's pages, and from himself a considerable sum of money;
then leaving the house by night I travelled some leagues on foot, and
reached a town called Osuna, where I hired a car. Two days afterwards I
entered S