he accents of despair made Julio shudder; but he said, in a cold manner:

"Are you ready, signor?"

"A moment more, one moment for prayer!" said Geronimo.

He joined his hands and uttered a fervent prayer; but although he
apparently accepted his fate with resignation, it was equally evident that
his soul struggled against the death which was hanging over him.

By degrees, however, prayer brought resignation and consolation to
Geronimo, for the nervous trembling of his limbs ceased and his voice
became more distinct and calm.

Julio fixed his eyes on Geronimo, and his heart was touched when he
thought he heard him ask pardon of God for his enemies; but when the lips
of the young man pronounced his own name in ardent supplication, and he
distinctly heard his unfortunate victim praying for the soul of his
murderer, Julio dropped his knife, and said, with a deep sigh:

"My courage has forsaken me! I have not the strength to accomplish this
cruel act."

"Ah!" exclaimed Geronimo, as Julio pronounced these words, "it is a voice
from heaven speaking to your heart. Hearken to it. Have pity on me! spare
my life!"

Julio was too absorbed in his own thoughts to heed Geronimo. In accents of
despair he muttered:

"Frightful situation! Beside the very grave I have dug for him, he prays
for my soul! And can I shed his blood? But there is no help for it. I
must--I must!"

The young gentleman remarked the struggle in Julio's soul, and he mustered
up all his strength to approach him; but Julio, seeing Geronimo's design,
picked up his knife, took the lamp, and left the cellar, saying:

"It is useless, signor. Fate is more powerful than we are; and struggle as
we may against its inevitable decrees, they must be accomplished! The
sight of your sorrow has deprived me of all courage. I go to regain
strength. I will soon return. Be prepared, for this time I will act
without delay!"

He closed the door and walked slowly down the passage. Having reached his
room, he stamped with anger, uttered desperate words, struck his forehead
with his fist, vented his impatience, because he could see no solution of
his difficulties. He paced the room like a madman, fought the air,
stopped, resumed his walk,--until exhausted he threw himself into a chair.
Sorrow, anguish, and rage, by turns were depicted on his countenance. He
lamented the necessity of the murder, and complained in bitter terms of
his sad fate. But in vain he tortured his brain--