The cousins intermarried.
Ferdinand and Josephine left the vale for a more stirring life;
Manuel, Henriquez's own son, and Miriam, his niece, preferred the
quiet of the vale. Julien, his nephew, too, had loved; but his
cousin's love was given to his brother, and he departed, unmurmuringly
indeed, but he dared not yet trust himself to associate calmly with
the object of his love: he had ever been a peculiarly sad and silent
boy; the fate of his father never for an instant seemed to leave his
mind, and he had secretly vowed to avenge him. Love, for a while, had
banished these thoughts; but when that returned in all the misery of
isolation to his own breast, former thoughts regained dominion, and he
tried to conquer the one feeling by the encouragement of the other.
His brother and his wife constantly visited the vale; if at no other
time, almost always at those solemn festivals which generally fell
about the period of the Catholic Easter and Michaelmas; often
accompanied by faithful friends, holding the same mysterious bond of
brotherhood, and to whom the secret of that vale was as precious and
secure as to its natural inmates. Its aged founder had frequently the
happiness of gathering around him from twenty to thirty of his secret
race, and of feeling that his work would benefit friends as well as
offspring. Julien alone never returned to the vale, and his family at
length mourned him as one amongst the dead.

The career of his brother was glorious but brief; he fell fighting
for his country, and his widow and young son returned to the parental
retreat. Though the cousins had married the same day, the son of
Ferdinand was ten years older than his cousin Marie; Manuel and Miriam
having lived twelve years together ere the longed-for treasure was
bestowed. At first, therefore, she had been to the youthful Ferdinand
but as a plaything, to pet and laugh with: he left the vale as page
to his father's companion in arms, Gonzalos de Lara, when Marie was
little more than five years old; but still his love for her and his
home was such that whenever it was possible, he would snatch if it
were but half a day to visit them. Gradually, and to him it seemed
almost strangely, the plaything child changed into the graceful girl,
and then again into the lovely woman; and dearer than ever became his
boyhood's home, though years had snatched away so many of its beloved
inmates, that, at the period of our story, its sole occupants were
Mari