“If thy looks belie not thy heart, and thou canst love truly, be under the porch of the cathedral, at the southern entrance, this even, at ten of the clock.”
Hildebrand conned the billet over and over again, each time, as though he were really in love, viewing it more closely, and discerning in its fair penmanship a fresh grace. He did not hesitate a moment as to the propriety of accepting the invitation; indeed, in the excitement of the occasion, he did not give it a thought. He only wondered how the adventure would end—only thought how many hours, slow and tedious as days, must precede the appointed hour; and sought to overlook their weariness with the far-seeing eye of anticipation.
But the hour of the assignation arrived at last. Punctual to the moment, Hildebrand pushed across the cathedral-close, and presented himself at the southern porch.
It was a dark night, but still; and, in this retired quarter of the city, there was no person abroad. On taking his station in the porch, Hildebrand thought it probable, from the tenor of her note, that his unknown mistress might be led by these circumstances to venture out, and give him a meeting in the shadow of the porch. But he was not left long to conjecture. He had been in the porch but a few minutes, when an approaching footstep, followed by the rustling of drapery, saluted his ear. The next moment, a female appeared in sight: it was the old duenna.
“Art thou here before me, Senhor?” she said, approaching him. “Now, I’ll swear, from this impatience of thine, thy love is honest, and should win thee thy lady’s favour. Nay, nay, be not so eager. Thou shalt see her anon, I warrant you.”
“Let it be straightway, then, Senhora, I entreat thee,” answered Hildebrand, slipping a broad piece into her hand.
“Ay, ay, I am overfond, and ye both bend me as ye will,” answered the duenna. “St. Jago have mercy on me! I am afraid I do not right.”
“Nay, I’ll warrant, in thy young days, thou hast had lovers thyself,” observed Hildebrand; “so thou canst not, with any honesty,—and I’ll swear thou art right honest,—deny them to thy fair young ward.”
“Well, indeed, thou speakest sooth,” returned the duenna; “for I have, in my younger days, had lovers enow; and though the time for such follies is almost past with me,”—she was full sixty years of age—“it is not so with Donna Inez. Be of good heart, then, and follow me to her presence.”