us?" cried the weeping girl, in
a voice of agony. "Oh, God! spare him to us!"

"Do you think your cousin comprehends her father's danger?"

"She fears the worst, and requested me this evening to ask your
opinion. Oh, how can I tell her that he must die!"

"Do not crush all hope (though I have none); let her believe that he
may recover. She is not of a temperament to bear prolonged agony.
The shock will be less painful, rest assured. Believe me, I deeply
sympathize with you both." And pressing her hand, he withdrew.

CHAPTER VIII.

"See! the dappled gray coursers of the morn
Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs,
And chase it through the sky!"

MARSTON.

Inez left her father's door as the last notes of the matin bell died
away on the cool, clear morning air. She held in her hand a silken
scarf, which, according to the custom of her country, was thrown
lightly across the head, and confined at the chin.

Beautiful she looked, with the feverish glow on her cheek, and her
large Spanish eyes, restless and piercing, flashing out at times the
thoughts of her inmost soul. She threw the mantilla round her head,
and turned toward the church. The step was firm yet hasty. She seemed
endeavoring to escape from herself.

The streets were silent and the Plaza deserted, and naught seemed
stirring save the swallows that twittered and circled round and round
the belfry of the church. There was something soothing in the deep
stillness that reigned on that balmy morning, and Inez felt its
influence. She paused at the entrance of the gray old church, and
stretched forth her arms to the rosy east.

"Peace, peace!" she murmured, in a weary tone, and sunk her head upon
her bosom. The door opened behind her, and raising herself proudly,
she drew the scarf closer about her, and entered.

A basin of holy water was placed near, and hastily she signed the
figure of the cross and proceeded down the aisle to a side door
leading to one of the wings. She pushed it noiselessly ajar and passed
in.

A solitary tin sconce dimly lighted the small confessional, dark and
gloomy as night, at that early hour. A wooden cross suspended from the
wall, a stone bench, and table, on which lay a rosary and crucifix,
and a small vessel of holy water, formed the entire furniture. Before
this table sat Father Mazzolin, his face buried in his hands. Her
step, light as it was, startled him; yet without rising, he murmured,
"Benedi