Gaspar called on them to remember the fatal consequence of delay: almost subdued himself, he yet had courage to appear barbarous, that he might shorten the pangs of others. Blanche heard him not: she flung herself alternately from the arms of one parent to those of the other, and as she deluged their bosoms with her tears, she called on them to assure her that their separation should not be eternal. Cold damps stood on the brow of Sebastian, for the pains of death were in his heart, but his eyes were tearless. Kara Aziek was like one frantic; her softness had given place to a wild and resisting despair: she clung to her child, and no remonstrances had power to loosen her grasp! Sebastian trembled for her reason, and that fear gave him strength to accomplish what he knew to be indispensible. He advanced towards his wife, forcibly, yet tenderly, unlocked her hands as they met round the waist of Blanche, and hastily pushing his daughter towards Gaspar, exclaimed, “Go, go my child! if you would not kill your mother. I have, I have blessed you--I bless you again.” Gaspar had seized the arm of Blanche, while his agitated master was trying to detain Kara Aziek; he now led the former towards the door, and lifting her up, ran with her from the house to the caloche which was to carry them to St. Salvador. On reaching the carriage, he found that she had fainted; less alarmed at this natural effect of sorrow, than he would have been grieved by her lamentations, he got into the vehicle, and supporting her against his shoulder, proceeded to bathe her temples with a pungent essence he usually wore about him. His exertion succeeded, Blanche revived: she looked round, and seeing herself on the road, she knew that all hope of present change was desperate: her eyes closed again, but it was only to weep with less obviousness, and to preserve their last look of her parents. CHAP. II. It was long ere Sebastian could calm the anguish of her, who still “Warmed his fond heart, and beat in every pulse:” To the pang of parting, quickly succeeded the tortures of suspense; her child was at the mercy of an ocean whose horrors she had herself experienced too awfully not to apprehend similar disaster for others. Aziek soon ceased to complain, but Sebastian’s watchful eyes marked the sudden alteration in hers at every blast of wind. Those wintry storms which formerly served to heighten the sublimity of their scenery, were now heard with horror: the pale cheek, the lifted eye, the scarce-breathed, half-checked apostrophe, all testified the suffering of an anxious mother. Sebastian perceived the inutility of remonstrance and exhortation; these might teach her to conceal her grief, but they could not bring her to conquer it: he abandoned them therefore, contenting himself with winning her to other interests, and planning new calls upon her benevolence.