Sebastian dreamt, and he dreamt of Kara Aziek. He fancied himself once more going through the last interview with Donna Gonsalva, and dragged by her orders to a loathsome dungeon; there he beheld the gentle Aziek braving death for the sake of pouring balm upon his wounded spirit: he felt himself in her arms, he heard her touching voice, her tears dropt over his face, while bending down she impressed on it a kiss of tender compassion. At this instant of his dream, Sebastian awoke; his heart was beating strongly; the kiss, the breath of Kara Aziek, seemed yet warm upon his lips: so lively was their impression that he stretched out his arms with an entranced look, believing he should indeed clasp her within them.--He leaped from the ground; no one was visible; the moon had set, and profound silence and darkness reigned throughout the cavern. “Aziek! angelic Aziek!” he repeated in a voice tender as her own--“friend, comforter, benefactress! where art thou?” he stopped and scarcely respired; for as yet his heart and his imagination were dreaming, and he expected to hear her speak, or at least sigh. While the echo of his own exclamation murmured along the walls, his senses gradually recovered from their delusion, and he knew himself to be alone in a place remote from her he dreamt of: tenderness rapidly diffused itself over his whole soul, while he supposed his dream realized, and himself held in the pitying arms of Kara Aziek. Her artlessness, her sweetness, her mild yet heroic goodness, her trembling soul-subduing love, her soft beauty, and still softer voice, floated before him, awaking hopes and wishes which a few hours previous, he would have deemed it impossible for him to feel. How naturally does the warm and youthful heart cling to the source of man’s sweetest emotions! how eagerly does it embrace the hope of finding its transports renewed; of blessing and being blessed,--of learning again to behold the world with complacency for the sake of one amiable object!--Sebastian believed himself solely yielding to friendship, gratitude, and the desire of atoning to Aziek for the wounds he had unintentionally given her peace, when he was thus dwelling delighted on the probability of one day becoming her husband. “She would share my varying fate without a murmur;” he said to himself, “if happy, she would exalt and refine my enjoyments; if wretched, she would alleviate my afflictions. On a throne, or in obscurity, with her my grateful heart could never know a want; her love, boundless as her virtues, would satisfy and fill it.” While he uttered this sentence, a thrill of more genuine affection than had ever stirred his bosom for Donna Gonsalva, glided through his veins: perfect esteem, perfect admiration, perfect gratitude,--what are they, but the purest species of love? To these sentiments were now added the conviction of no longer possessing any other source of happiness.