od! the trial will be more terrible than I dared to think," said
Fabian, inwardly.

And he advanced a step forward, then paused; the poor young man did not
entertain a hope.

"By what miracle of heaven do I find you here?" he cried.

"I come every evening, Tiburcio," replied the young girl.

This time Fabian began to tremble more with love than hope.

We have seen that Rosarita, in her last interview with Fabian, chose
rather to run the risk of death than confess that she loved him. Since
then she had suffered so much, she had shed so many tears, that now love
was stronger than virgin purity.

A young girl may sometimes, by such courage, sanctify and enhance her
modesty.

"Come nearer, Tiburcio," she said; "see! here is my hand."

Fabian rushed forward to her feet. He seized the hand she offered
convulsively, but he tried in vain to speak.

The young girl looked down with anxious tenderness upon his face.

"Let me see if you are much changed, Tiburcio," she continued. "Ah!
yes. Grief has left its traces on your brow, but honour has ennobled
it. You are as brave as you are handsome, Tiburcio. I learned with
pride that danger had never made your cheek turn pale."

"You heard, did you say?" cried Fabian; "but what have you heard?"

"All, Tiburcio; even to your most secret thoughts. I have heard all,
even of your coming here this evening. Do you understand? and I am
here!"

"Before I dare to comprehend, Rosarita,--for this time a mistake would
kill me," continued Fabian, whose heart was stirred to its very depths
by the young girl's words, and the tenderness of her manner, "will you
answer one question, that is if I dare to ask it?"

"Dare, then, Tiburcio," said Rosarita, tenderly. "Ask what you wish. I
came to-night to hear you--to deny you nothing."

"Listen," said the young Count: "six months ago I had to avenge my
mother's death, and that of the man who had stood in my father's place,
Marcos Arellanos; for if you know all, you know that I am no longer--"

"To me you are the same, Tiburcio; I never knew Don Fabian de Mediana."

"The wretch who was about to expiate his crime--the assassin of Marcos
Arellanos, in short, Cuchillo--begged for his life. I had no power to
grant it; when he cried, `I ask it in the name of Dona Rosarita, who
loves you, for I heard--,' the suppliant was upon the edge of a
precipice. I would have pardoned him for love of you; when one of my
companions precipitated h