"Let it not be so," said Juan; and then solemnly added, "Learn that, yesternight, the wretched Villafana, who, by some magical science, seems acquainted with the secrets of all in this camp, gave me to know what I did not before dream. Magdalena, when I plucked thee from the wreck, I dreamed, for a moment, that I loved thee—" The maiden trembled from head to foot, and Juan was himself greatly agitated; "I beheld one, in whom, from the act of giving her a life, I might fancy a tie, such as did not exist between me and any other human being, from the time of the death of my poor father up to that happy hour. But had that affection ripened even into such as Hilario avowed,"—(Here Magdalena waved her hand impatiently;) "nay, had I plighted with thee faith and troth, and did we stand this moment before the altar, my passion would be at once changed to awe and horror, to know that I was wedding the spouse of Heaven. Magdalena, a life of penitence can scarcely remove the sin of broken vows!"'
"Say not this," exclaimed the unhappy Magdalena, vehemently: "What knew I of earth or heaven, when, imprisoned in a cell from childhood upwards, I gave up the one for the other? Heaven broke the oath which oppressors exacted; else, wherefore was I saved of all the sisters, and thrown upon a land where cloisters were unknown? For these vows could I have procured a dispensation. Hast thou never heard of such being dissolved?"
"Surely I have," said Juan, mildly, desiring to allay the agitation of his visitor: "It was told to me, by Villafana, that the señor Camarga (an insane man, who made an attempt on my life,) was once a monk of St. Dominic and an Inquisitor, and permitted to revoke his vows for some worldly purpose, I know not what; and I have heard it also said, that the sister of Don Hernan was allowed to leave a nunnery, to wed some great nobleman of Andalusia."
"It is enough," said Magdalena, calmly, "the vow was suspended, not broken; it will be resumed, when the purpose for which I now live, is accomplished, and would have been before, but for the accident which brought me to this land.—Juan Lerma, I will not ask thee why thou refusest life at my hands: but it is offered thee by one wronged and defamed, not degraded. If thou live, it is well thou shouldst know the truth, and remember me without contempt; if thou die, the grave shall not cover thee in ignorance. Hilario—Start not, frown not, tremble not, for the truth must be spoken—Hilario abused thy belief, that he might break my heart, and perhaps, also, thine; for he hated me, because I repelled his love with contempt, and thee, because he knew—because he suspected,—that thou wert the cause. You fought; he fell,—and, with what seemed his dying lips, (for, even in death, his spite was not diminished,) repeated the demoniacal falsehood; boasting of the degradation of one whose only shame was that she did not requite his presumption with a dagger!"
Again the figure of the unhappy girl was elevated by passion into the port of a destroying deity. But she perceived that Juan was shocked by a display of fire so unwomanly and, indeed, so fearful; and this instantly transformed her into another being:
"This too, this too," she cried, shedding tears of humiliation, "this, too, is a consequence of his malice, for it has converted me into the thing I am not,—into what seems a fury or a demon. Dost thou believe I am—dost thou believe I was a creature formed of passions, that should belong only to men? No! oh heaven, oh no! it is the madness that comes from the viper's tooth. Stung, vilified, robbed of respect and happiness, how even can a woman sit down in peace, unless she can die? unless she can die? She will have her vengeance, believe it; and well is it for her, when it is won by the hands of a brother or sire.—Yet, believe this, if thou wilt, for I am not what I was; believe aught,—anything, save the lies of Hilario. With his dying lips he defamed me—with his dying hand he revoked the slander, and avowed himself a villain. Behold the refutation of calumny."
As she spoke, she drew from her bosom, with a trembling grasp, and put into Juan's, a scrap of paper, on which he read, with extreme surprise, the following words, traced with a hand feeble and agitated, yet well known to him,—
"What I have said of Magdalena del Naufragio," (or Magdalena of the Wreck, for by this name she was known at Isabela,) "is false. In malice and folly I have laid perjury on my soul; and, as I now speak the truth, I pray heaven to forgive me.—Amen.
"Antonio del Milagro."
"Good heaven!" said Juan, "is it possible Antonio could commit this dastardly crime? Alas, Magdalena, I have done you a grievous wrong, and I beseech you, pardon me.—This thing was not only wicked, but marvellous. The paper is stained with blood—The saints acquit me of his death, for it was I who shed it! I am glad he died penitent—What brought him to this justice? I held my dagger to his throat, yet he cried, with a devilish malice and courage, 'Strike, for—' But I will not repeat his sinful and exulting falsehoods.—Alas, that his blood should be upon my soul! the blood of his father's son!"
Magdalena surveyed the self-accusing looks of the prisoner, with much emotion; and twice or thrice she opened her lips, to give him comfort, or to continue her dark and singular story, and yet failed, as many times, to speak. At last, she clasped her hands upon her bosom, as if, by an effort of physical strength, to give support and resolution to her heart, and said, with low and interrupted accents,