“Stop!” cried Federico; “you are mad. Whither away?”
“Home.”
“Without me?”
“Without you, señor. The truth is, you are wanted blind, or not at all.”
The result of the colloquy that ensued was, that the Gallego twisted his cloth thrice round the student’s eyes, ears, and nose, and led him carefully down a street and round sundry corners and turnings, till at last he deposited him in a carriage, which instantly set off at a rapid pace. After a tolerably long drive, by no means a pleasant one for our adventurer, whose guide held his hands firmly in his—probably to prevent his removing the bandage—the coach stopped, the two men got out, and Federico was again conducted for some distance on foot. He knew that he was still in Madrid, for he walked over pavement, and, in spite of the thick cloth that impeded his hearing, he could distinguish the distant sound of carriages and hum of life. Presently a door creaked, and he apparently entered a garden, for there was a smell of flowers and a rustling of leaves; then he ascended a staircase, and was conducted through cool lofty apartments, and through doors which seemed to open and shut of themselves. Suddenly his companion let go his hand. Federico stood for a minute in silent expectation, then, groping around him with extended arms, he said in a low voice, “Am I at my journey’s end? Answer!” But nobody replied.
By one decided pull, the student removed the bandage from his eyes, and gazed around him in wonder and bewilderment. He was alone in a spacious and magnificent apartment, whose walls were tapestried with striped blue and white satin, and whose carved ceiling was richly gilt and decorated. The tall Venetian mirrors, the costly furniture, the beautifully fine Indian matting, everything in the room, in short, convinced him that he was in the favoured abode of wealth, and rank, and luxury. A lamp, suspended by silver chains, shed a soft light over the apartment. Federico’s position was a doubtful, probably a dangerous one; but love emboldened him, and he felt the truth of a saying of Geronimo’s, that courage grows with peril. Happen what might, there he was, and he knew no fear. The only perceptible exit from the room was by the large folding-doors through which he had entered. He tried them—they were fastened. His mother-wit suggested to him that his retreat had perhaps been thus cut off that he might seek another outlet. He did so, and presently perceived hinges under the tapestry. A silver handle protruded from the wall; he grasped it, a door opened, and a cry of astonishment and delight burst from the student. Beaming with loveliness, a blush upon her cheek, a soft smile upon her rosy lips, the lady of his thoughts stood before him.
For a moment the pair gazed at each other in silence, their looks telling more eloquently than any words the love that filled their hearts. But soon Federico started from his brief trance, threw himself at the feet of the incognita, and, seizing her hand, pressed it ardently to his lips, murmuring the while, in low and passionate accents, such broken and rapturous sentences as only lovers speak and love alone can comprehend. The lady stood over him, her graceful form slightly bowed, her large lustrous eyes alternately fixed upon the kneeling youth and roving anxiously round the apartment.
“Don Federico,” she said, in tones whose sweetness thrilled his blood, “may the Holy Virgin forgive my unmaidenly boldness. I have yielded to an impulse stronger than my reason—to the desire of seeing you, of hearing——”
“That I love you,” interrupted Federico—“that I adore you from the first hour I beheld you,—that I will die at your feet if you refuse me hope!”
She bent forward, and laid her small rosy hand upon his throbbing forehead. The touch was electric, the fiery glow of passion flashed in her glance. “Light of my eyes!” she whispered, “it were vain to deny that my heart is thine. But our love is a flower on the precipice’s brink.”