"Ah! senor," said the abbess, laying her hand upon his shoulder, "I have already said vengeance is not ours. But you have spoken gallantly!"
"A noble cavalier! Viva!" cried El Pastor, in a chuckling tone; "Hernandez de Cordova could not have spoken more bravely. Bueno como el pan, as the old proverb tells us."
But when this burst of passion evaporated, he was again the sad and sorrowful young man that he had at first appeared. As he refused to partake of any refreshment, although pressed by the abbess to do so, the padre El Pastor led him out to the convent garden, while the nuns made preparations for the entombment of Catalina in their oratory, or chapel. It was a bright sunshine morning; but Ronald was careless of its beauty and of the fragrance of the flowers freshly blooming in the morning dew; the beautiful arrangements of the place, the arbours, the sparkling fountains, the statues of stone and marble,—he passed them all by unheeded. Hobbling by his side, El Pastor, instead of endeavouring to console him for his loss, poured into his unheeding ears, with a string of old proverbs and wise saws, a tough lecture for the irreverent manner in which he had treated the name of Madre-Maria the evening before, until the impatient Highlander strode away, and left him to commune alone.
That night Catalina was buried in the chapel. The building was brilliantly illuminated with coloured lamps, the softened lights of which were reflected from the gilded columns,—from the organ, with its tall row of silver-trumpet like pipes,—from the rich altars and statues of polished metal placed in niches, where golden candlesticks bore tall twinkling tapers, which from their recesses cast a strange light on the marble tombs of knights and long-departed warriors, whose rusty swords, spurs, and faded banners were yet in some places hung over them, and whose deeds were represented on the ancient pieces of mouldy and moth-eaten tapestry which hung gloomily on the side walls of the chapel, contrasting strongly with the glittering images and gorgeously coloured Scripture-pieces, many of them said to be the productions of Alonza Cano, the Michael Angelo of Spain, who flourished during the seventeenth century.
Ronald Stuart, the only mourner there, walked by the side of the shell, or basket of wicker-work, which contained all that remained of Catalina, and which was borne through the chapel and deposited on the high altar by six of the youngest nuns,—three on each side, carrying it by handles projecting from the sides of the frame.
The requiem for the dead was now chanted, and the dulcet notes of the lofty organ, blending in one delightful strain with the melodious voices of the nuns, ringing among the pillared aisles, echoing in the hollow vaults, and dying away in the distant arches of the cloisters, produced such heavenly sounds as subdued the heart of Stuart, softening and soothing his sorrow. He listened in a sort of ecstacy, almost deeming that the thrilling voice of Catalina was mingled with the inspiring harmony he heard. He was moved to tears, tears of sadness and enthusiasm, and almost involuntarily he sunk on his knees at the marble steps of the altar, an attitude which raised him immensely in the estimation of El Pastor and the sisterhood, while the bright eyes of the mitred abbess sparkled as she stretched her white hands glittering with jewels over him, as if welcoming him to that church, the tenets of which he had never yet inquired into. He had knelt down thus merely from excess of veneration and a holy feeling, with which the sublime service of the Roman Catholic church had inspired him. The music arose to its utmost pitch at that moment; the voices of the nuns and choristers mounted to the full swell; the trumpets of the organ pealed along the groined roof, and caused the massive columns and the pavement beneath them to tremble and vibrate with the soul-stirring grandeur of the sound.
In the chancel, before the great altar, a pavement stone had been raised and a deep grave dug, the soil of which lay piled in a gloomy heap on the lettered stones around its yawning mouth.
On the chant being ended, four priests bore the bier of Catalina to the side of the grave which was to receive her. The wicker-coffin or shell had no lid, and Ronald now looked upon her pale and still beautiful features for the last time. She was not enveloped in a ghastly shroud, but, after the fashion of her own country, had been arrayed by the nuns in a dress of the whitest muslin, adorned with the richest lace and edgings of needle-work. Her fine hair was disposed over her neck and bosom. A large chaplet of freshly gathered white roses encircled her forehead, giving her the appearance of a bride dressed for the bridal rather than a corse for the tomb; and, but for the mortal paleness of her complexion, one would have supposed that she only slept, so placidly did her closed eye-lashes repose upon her soft cheek.
While a slow, sad, but exquisitely melancholy dirge arose, the bare-footed priests proceeded to lower her into the cold damp grave, but in a manner so peculiar and revolting, that the lover, who had never witnessed a Spanish interment before, almost sprung forward to stay their proceeding. Instead of lowering the coffin into the grave, they took out the body, permitting it to sink gently into its narrow bed without other covering than the lace and muslin, part of which El Pastor drew over her face and ringlets, to hide them from mortal eyes for ever. Each monk now seized a shovel, and rapidly the coffinless remains were covered up with dry sand, provided for the purpose.
The feelings of poor Ronald were sadly outraged at the barbarous mode of interment common in Spain for those not of the families of grandees, but remonstrance would have been unavailing. The scraping and jarring of the iron shovels on the pavement, as they hurled in decayed bones, damp red clay, stones, and sand on that fair and unprotected form, grated horribly on his ears; but how did he shrink and revolt from the pummeling of the body! A stout padre, seizing a billet of wood, shod with an iron ferule like a pavier's rammer, began to tread upon the grave and rapidly beat down the earth into it, so that all that had been taken out should be again admitted. He had not given a dozen strokes in this disgusting manner, before Ronald shook off his apathy; and grasping him by the cope, dragged him fiercely backwards, commanding them at once to desist from a proceeding so distressing. Two priests, with the aid of iron levers, deposited a slab of marble above the tomb, and it was closed for ever. It bore the hastily carved legend,—