dition gives the room you occupy to the Lady Isabel; it has ever
since been called Dona Isabel's chamber; so, when lying upon her bed
to-night, you can dream of your fair predecessor. Her father, also, was
rather fond of having his own way, and in this the daughter fully
sympathized with him; it is said to be a characteristic of our race, so
we had better call this obstinacy a noble firmness, and thereby save our
self-love. Don Alphonso, however, was not quite such a bloody-minded
tyrant as Don Pedro: how could he be, as he was one of our ancestors?
The matter is clearly impossible. And I wish you to notice, my
daughters, how, with the lapse of years, the race of fathers improves:
beginning with a murderous Don Pedro, a self-willed Don Alphonso then
walks upon the stage; and lastly, as a perfect specimen of a dutiful,
obsequious papa, behold me, ladies--at your feet!

I have told you that Isabel had a mind of her own; she showed it very
plainly by falling in love in a most unorthodox, unfilial, enthusiastic
sort of way--with whom? You will be so shocked, my daughters, that I
almost dread to tell you. If she had waited, like a dutiful child, till
her father had told her she _might_ love, it would have been another
thing! But this headstrong girl seemed to think she had as good a right
to be happy in her own way as a peasant! True, the man of her choice was
not a reprobate: he was not even a low-born, unmannerly churl: Don
Fernando de Velasquez stood foremost among the young cavaliers of Spain,
in gallantry and in that nobility of mind which, should ever accompany
gentle birth. But yet it was in that very gentle birth that all the
offence lay, for Fernando's ancestors had long been at enmity with the
house of Alcantra, and this ancient feud had been embittered by years.
But, sometimes, there appears to be a fate in the affairs of men,
especially when a woman, and a pretty woman, is in question: so it
happened that Don Fernando was, one day, riding at some distance from
his home, when his good fortune enabled him to rescue a lady, whose
horse, frightened by some object in the road, reared and plunged in a
most alarming manner. It was Dona Isabel, who had out-ridden her
attendants, and who now felt that she owed her life to this very
handsome, polite, and noble-looking cavalier. Could he do less than
soothe her fluttered nerves, guide her horse, and make himself as
agreeable as possible? Could she do less than feel ardently