"Holy Virgin!" proceeded the dame, "that such a thing should happen in my time!"
"In the name of God—Martha," cried again the father, in agony, "tell me what misfortune has happened."
"Oh!" whined the duenna, struggling hard to force from her old eyes a couple of rebellious tears, "ask me not, for shame and sorrow will choke my utterance."
"May all the curses of Heaven choke you! Woman, what have you done with my daughter? Speak—speak, or by Santiago de Compostela, I will so belabour thy shrivelled form, as to reduce it to atoms in less time than you can say your credo."
The duenna had never before seen her master in so terrible a passion, and she almost repented not having followed her first impulse to fly. She inwardly cursed that tenderness for her reputation, which had brought the more substantial part of her person into the present quandary. A vigorous defence was the only alternative now left her.
"What have I done with your daughter!" she exclaimed, with a look which she meant to be expressive of indignant surprise.—"May the Lord help you!—what should I have done with your daughter?"
"Where is she then?"
A pause ensued.
"Where is she?" demanded again the agitated father, with redoubled emotion.
"Alas! I know not—she is gone to all appearance—May the light of Heaven, and her guardian angel conduct her steps!"