if unable to comprehend that one so dear was
gone from him for ever. At last the sad truth forced itself upon his
mind; he bowed his face upon the pillow of his murdered parent, and
his overcharged feelings found relief in a passion of tears. The
priest and the woman left the apartment. Mariano Torres remained
standing behind his friend, and after a time made an effort to lead
him from the room. But Luis motioned him away. His grief was of those
that know not human consolation.

It was evening when Mariano, who had been watching near the chamber of
death, without venturing to intrude upon his friend's sorrow, saw the
door open and Luis come forth. Torres started at seeing him, so great
was the change that had taken place in his aspect. His cheeks were
pale and his eyes inflamed with weeping, but the expression of his
countenance was no longer sorrowful; it was stern even to fierceness,
and his look was that of an avenger rather than a mourner. Taking
Mariano's arm, he led him out of the house, and, entering the stable,
began to saddle his horse with his own hands. Torres followed his
example in silence, and then both mounted and rode off in the
direction of the high-road. Upon reaching it, Mariano first ventured
to address a question to his friend.

"What are your plans, Luis?" said he. "Whither do we now proceed?"

"To provide for my father's funeral," was the reply.

"And afterwards?" said his friend, with some hesitation.

"To revenge his death!" hoarsely shouted Herrera, as he spurred his
horse to its utmost speed along the rough road that led to the nearest
village.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Negro_, or black, was the term commonly applied to the Liberals
by their antagonists.

HUMBOLDT.

We hear much, and much that is true, of the ephemeral character of a
large part of our literature; but to no branch of it are the
observations more truly applicable, than to the greater number of
travels which now issue from the British press. It may safely be
affirmed that our writers of travels, both male and female, have of
late years arrived at a pitch of weakness, trifling, and emptiness,
which is unparalleled in the previous history of literature in this or
perhaps any other country. When we see two post octavos of travels
newly done up by the binder, we are prepared for a series of useless
remarks, weak attempts at jokes, disquisitions on dishes, complaints
of inns, stale anecdotes and vain flourishes, which a