“Great God! how have I been deceived in that man!” he cried, in a tone of agony. “My child, my sweet child! and thou hast been the sacrifice! Oh, for freedom, that I might hasten to rescue her from the bondage she detests! A week hence, and her fate will have been sealed, when I, alas! shall have no power to release her. And I—oh, how cruelly have I treated her! Curses on the stern tyrant who thus detains me. He is a father, and did he know the cause, he would release me. No, the base upstart would but smile the more to see the high-born fidalgo’s agony. May Heaven’s anger blast all the works in which he prides himself! May—ah! I am raving—oh! God, support me!”
Luis stood amazed at this sudden outbreak of the usually sedate and dignified fidalgo, though scarcely himself less agitated in his eagerness to learn the contents of the letter, the purport of which the fidalgo’s words appeared to intimate. The old man saw his inquiring gaze. “See,” he continued, extending his hand with the paper. “Read that, and see how I have been deceived; and alas! my poor child has been sacrificed;” and he sunk into his chair, covering his eyes with his hands, while Luis read the letter. It was to the following effect:—
“Heaven has thought fit to summon me from this world, during your absence, my beloved husband, and already do I feel the near approach of death. Alas! I have no one to whom I can confide my dying wishes, and a secret which I would entrust but to your ears alone. I therefore write with faltering hand this paper, which I trust may be seen by our sweet Clara, and given to you. It is for her sake I am anxious; for I see perils surrounding her course through life, which will require all a mother’s care to guard against.
“Do not, as you value her happiness or your own, confide in the Father Alfonzo. He is a wretched hypocrite; yet till lately I discovered it not. For many days past has he been endeavouring to persuade me to devote our Clara to the service of the Church; but I know too well the misery and wretchedness it will entail on her, and firmly have I refused to sanction his plan. While I spoke, he smiled scornfully in return, nor do I doubt his purpose. He has long hated me, for he knew I was not deceived in him. As you love me, as you prize our child’s happiness, let her select her own lot in life; but warn her against the dangers of a convent. She will never insist on wedding one beneath her in family; but never insist on her marrying one she cannot learn to love. My eyes grow dim, my hand weak, yet do I exert myself, during the absence of Frè Alfonzo, to finish this, lest he should return before I have concealed it. Adieu! my beloved husband! ere you can reach your home, I shall have ceased to breathe; and, as you have loved me in life, forget not my dying prayer.”
The last lines were faint and almost illegible. Luis returned the paper with a look of despair, and, for a minute, the father and the lover stood gazing at each other, without uttering a word.
“What hope is there?” at last exclaimed the Fidalgo.
“Alas, none!” was the dejected reply of Luis; then, suddenly rousing himself, he exclaimed, “Yes, there is hope! I will escape from hence, and save her, or die in the attempt! Give me but your written order to the Lady Abbess, to prevent your daughter’s taking the veil, and I will bear it to her, and also a note to Donna Clara, to assure her of her mother’s real prayer, and of your consent to her following her own inclinations.”
“Alas, I fear such is but a hopeless chance,” said the Fidalgo. “We must confide the order to some one who is at freedom.”
“No one can be found who would hasten as I will; for no one has the same excitement,” answered Luis.
“Remember you are still a captive,” said the Fidalgo, mournfully.