“Rise, sir minion,” said he, “I have told thee my daughter shall wed the Talavera—and she shall!”
“Never! as I live, never!” said the girl. “Never shall a Llenaro become the bride of the man she cannot love!—never!”
The lady looked her father’s child—as though she had been born to be obeyed. The softness of the mother had gone. Her slight, round figure, straight as a young Indian’s, had risen to its full height. Her eyes dilated—those eyes, where shone her soul—those warm, black eyes, whose every glance kept time to the throbbings of her impulsive heart.
“Ysabel,” said Llenaro, sadly, after a pause, “thou forgetest I am thy father.”
“My father! dearest papa!—my own father, forgive me. Thou art my father! but do not,” her tones were low and earnest, “oh! do not force this hated match on thy child. She will do anything—all thou wishest—but oh! do not seal her misery forever.”
The count permitted the ardent caresses of the maiden, then putting her gently from him, he told her to remain in her turret. He had much to say to her. He would seek her when he was ready to tell her what he had to say. Then turning to Jose, he added, “Follow me, sir page, I have somewhat to say to thee also.”
The maiden watched the receding forms of the two until they had disappeared, and then she murmured, “He spoke kindly to me,” and Hope warmed her heart. A bright Hope! Hope the deceiver! What would the world be without thee, fairy Hope? Thou comest like a dream, whispering in our soul’s ear thy witching fancies, until they seem realities—and the is to be, stands before us a living now! Great is thy power, fair Hope—and thou knowest it,—and so thou goest on deluding mortals,—making the dim shadowy perspective a glorious foreground. So, when our hearts feel sad and weary, and long to burst the chain that binds them to this dark earth, thou comest with the dews of heaven fresh glistening on thy lips—and tellest us fairy tales, and singest us fairy songs—and kissest our hearts with thy cool, dewy lips. And we believe thee, syren, and let thee deceive us again and again.
The Lady Ysabel rested her wild, black eyes—beaming with a thousand thoughts—upon her mother’s picture, and kneeling before it, she clasped her little hands and implored her gentle mother to look down kindly on her daughter. “And, mother,” continued she—her lute-like voice scarce audible—“ask Him, the mighty one—whose throne is in high heaven—to forgive thy erring child, if she forgets, in her love for the creature, the Creator. God forgive me if I love him more than I ought, for I cannot love him less.”
The Lady Ysabel watched all that evening for her father, and the next day—and the next—and the next—and then her cheek began to pale, and her eye grew dim with weeping. For Hope had grown weary and fled. She could not dream either why the page came not—a little indignation mingled with her sorrow.
The duenna did all she could to restore her young lady to her right mind, as she said. At length she brought her a letter—saying—