"It is not all," replied the other.
"But what connection has this horrible story with Don Pedro de Luna?"
"Did I not tell you when I first began that the history was his?"
"You did; but, carried away by the dreadful incidents of your narrative, I lost sight of the personages. My whole mind was so excited, that I fancied myself a spectator of the scenes that passed before me with such giddy rapidity, and did not recollect that one of the actors was so close to us. But how does it happen that you are so well acquainted with the details of this miserable tragedy?"
"I have heard them told many and many a day, from infancy till now that I am a man. My father was the Corporal Luco, whom you have seen so devoted to the Ribera family. My poor mother was the nurse, and I am foster brother to Don Guzman's child; for we were born about the same date, and my mother, who was brought up in the family, was very anxious to nurse us both, insisting that, in imbibing the same milk as my young master, my devotion to him would be endless. Alas! God has decided otherwise; he is dead."
"Who can tell?" said Don Fernando, with gentle pity; "Perhaps he may make his appearance again some day."
"Alas! We have no longer any hope. More than twenty years have elapsed since the frightful catastrophe, and during all that time no efforts, however active, have sufficed to lift a corner of the mysterious veil which conceals the fate of the poor child."
"His poor mother must have suffered dreadfully."
"She went mad. But the sun is rapidly sinking to the horizon, and night will be here before two hours have passed. Let me finish my tale, by telling you what happened after the arrest of Don Guzman."
"Go on, my friend; I am anxious to know the end of this dark story."