"Maiden!" said Juan, frowning severely, "in this coldness of purpose, now that thou art acquainted with the act, thou art conniving at murder!"
Apparently this reproof touched Magdalena to the quick. She started, shuddered, and turned as if to leave the prison; but changing her purpose, stepping up to the light, and assuming a boldness which she did not feel, she falteringly asked,
"Is there no case, in which such connivance might be excusable? But a moment since," (and here she bent her head upon her bosom,) "I was about to commit murder—Had I slain Villafana, wouldst thou then have thought the act criminal?"
"Surely not, surely not," said Juan; "for, in this case, thou wert arresting the blow of a cut-throat, to kill whom in the act, were but sheer justice, and according to law. And yet I would that the blow had been struck by another. It is not seemly for a woman to carry a dagger, and still more improper that she should use it."
"What if she be attacked by a villain, and no helper nigh?" demanded the forlorn girl. "Heaven has given me no protector—My father, my brother, and my friend—they all lie in this little steel;" and as she picked up the weapon from the floor, as if no longer ashamed to bear it, a ghastly smile beamed from her visage, like the flash of a Medusa amid the foam of a midnight billow.
"Speak no more of Cortes," she continued, observing that Juan was about to resume the subject of the conspiracy; "he is far better able to protect himself than thou. Were there twenty poniards in Villafana's hand, and were his arm as extended as his malice, yet could he not reach even to the heel of Don Hernan. His fate is written,—yes, more inevitably than thine; for thou hast yet one hope of deliverance, and Villafana has none.—Listen to me, Juan Lerma; it is perhaps the last time on earth that I shall speak to thee. If thou reject mine offer this night, I call heaven to witness that I will leave thee to thy fate."
"Magdalena," said Juan, firmly, "we have spoken of this before. God protect thee, for there is a wall of adamant between us."
"Be it so," said the lady; "and let it be higher than thy wishes, deeper than thy scorn, so thou wilt leave this land, and return to it no more."
"On the morrow, Magdalena, I die," said Lerma, with unabated resolution. "Hear then the counsel of a dying man, who can yet call himself your friend. Do what you have recommended to me: leave this land, and, in the gloom of a cloister, expiate—"
"Yet again?" exclaimed the maiden, with an eye of fire. "This is to distract me! Oh, if thou knew how unjustly thou hast planted daggers in my bosom—daggers to which this thing of steel is but as the thorn of a rosebud—thou wouldst kill thyself, rather than speak them again! But it matters not: whether thou livest or diest, still must thou know that I am wronged.—Listen to me—I will speak of Hilario.—"