"O Juanita, Juanita!" cried Magdalena, the tears starting from her eyes, and wringing her fair hands. "If you knew all—if you knew the wrong that woman has done me; but not now—not now; leave me, good cousin,—leave me!"
"You are not well, dearest," said Juanita; "take my advice, go to bed and repose. To-morrow you will be calm, and to-morrow you shall tell me all."
"To-morrow! to-morrow!" muttered Magdalena. "Well, well; to-morrow you will find me!"
"Yes; I will waken you, and sit at your bedside, and laugh your griefs away. Good night, Magdalena!"
"Farewell, dearest!" said the heart-stricken girl; and Juanita left the chamber.
Before a silver crucifix, Magdalena knelt in prayer.
"Father of mercies, blessed Virgin, absolve me of the sin—if sin it be to rush unbidden to the presence of my Judge! My burden is too great to bear!"
She rose from her knees, took from a cupboard a goblet of Venetian glass, and a flask of Xeres wine. Into the goblet she first dropped the contents of a paper she took from her bosom, and then filled it to the brim with wine. She had already stretched forth her hand to the fatal glass, when she heard her name called by her father.
"He would give me a good-night kiss," said the wretched girl. "I must receive it with pure lips. I come, dear father,—I come."
Scarcely had she left her chamber when the old duenna again stole into the room.