"Dost thou quarrel with me for fighting thy battles? Oh, by St. James, it is better to draw sword on a friend than for him: ingratitude always comes of it. Had I thought this of old, I had been a happier man, and thou never hadst mourned the death of Hilario;—no, by'r lady, Hilario had been a living man, and thou happy with him in the island!"
As he hurried over these words, the diversion they gave to his thoughts, enabled him rapidly to recover his self-command, in which, as in affairs of less personal consequence, he always exhibited wonderful power. This accomplished, he continued, with an earnest voice,
"Concealment is now useless: the time waxes, when I must think of other things: let us shrive one another even as two friars, and deceive one another no further than they. Methinks, what I do is for thy especial satisfaction.—An ill loon I am, to do so much for one who so bitterly censures me!—Who thou art, and what thou art, I know not: thou wert an angel, couldst thou give over chiding. The young Hilario del Milagro was the son of mine old friend Antonio:—a very noble boy,—I remember him well.—By heaven, thy hand is turned to ice! Art thou ill?"
"Do I look so?" said the maiden, with a faint laugh. Her face had of a sudden become very pale, yet she spoke firmly, though not without a visible effort. "I listen to thy confession."
"To mine! By my troth, I am confessing thy sins and sorrows, and not mine. Well, Magdalena," he continued, "thy emotion is not amiss: it is not every maiden can think calmly of the death of her lover, knowing that his slayer is nigh.—I knew Hilario, when a boy,—ay, good faith, and Juan Lerma, too, his playmate and foster-brother, or his young page and varlet, I know not which. It was on Antonio's recommendation, that I afterwards took this foundling knave to my bosom, and made him—no, not what he is! for this is a thing of his own making. I sent him to Española to recruit: he loitered,—he returned to the house of Milagro—Shall I say more? Hilario, his brother, the son of his best friend and patron, was the betrothed husband of Magdalena; and him did the wolf-cub slay. Wo betide me! for it was I that taught him the use of his weapon.—Is not this enough? Accident hath brought thee to Mexico; thou seest the killer of thy lover; and, like a true daughter of Spain, thy heart is full of vengeance.—Is not this true? Disguise thy wrath in wild sarcasm no longer. Were he the king's son, he should——Pho! recall thy words: Is it not 'just?' is it not 'expedient?'"
To these sinister demands, Magdalena replied with astonishing composure:
"All this is well. Shrive now thyself—Hast thou any cause, personally, to desire his death?"
"Millions!" replied the general, grinding his teeth; "millions, millions! to which the death of Hilario, wringing at thy breast, is but as a gnat-bite to the sting of adders.—Millions, millions!"
"Give him then to death," said Magdalena, with a voice so grave and passionless, that it instantly surprised the Conquistador out of his fury; "give him to death,—but let it be in thy name, not mine."
"Art thou wholly inexplicable?" he cried. "I read thee by the alphabet of human passions, and I make thee not out,—no, not so much as a word. Thy flesh warms and chills, thine eye swims and flashes, thy brow bends, thy lip curls, thy breast heaves, thy frame trembles; and yet art thou more than mortal, or less. When shall I understand thee?"