"Ay, truly, Don Philip, a crime it is in the eyes of Holy Mother Church to have aught to do, even to the extent of a name, with the accursed race, and so, to repeat my offer to you for the hand of your fair daughter. I support my offer now with the promise--not a light one, permit me to impress upon you--to gain the sanction of the Church that her old name of Rachel shall be cancelled, and a new and Christian one bestowed upon her?" As he finished speaking he turned from Don Philip with a look of insolent assurance to Don Diego, who in his turn had started from his seat, and stood with nervous fingers grasping the hilt of his rapier. As the nobleman met the sinister eyes, full of an impertinent challenge, he made a hasty step forward with the haughty exclamation: "And who are you pray, sir, who dare ask for the hand of one who is promised to Don Montoro de Diego? Know you, sir, that the daughter of Don Philip is my affianced bride?" "I have heard something of the sort," was the reply, in a tone of indescribable cool insolence. "Yes; I have already learnt that you have had eyesight good enough to discover the fairest beauty in Saragossa. But you had better leave her to me, noble Señor. She will be--" and the speaker paused a moment to give greater emphasis to his next slowly-uttered words--"she will be safer with me than with you--and her father also." And with a parting look and nod, so full of latent knowledge and cruel determination that Don Diego's blood seemed to freeze in his veins as he encountered them, the new aspirant for the beautiful young heiress took his leave. As the great iron-bound outer door clanged to, behind him, the head of the old man sank forward on his breast with a groan. His daughter re-entered the apartment at the moment, and the smile which had begun to dawn on her countenance at the departure of the unwelcome guest gave way to a cry of dismay. Flying across the floor she threw herself on the ground beside her father with a pitiful little cry. "Oh! my father, are you ill?--What ails you, my father?" For some seconds the old man's trembling hand tenderly caressing the soft hair was the only answer. At last he asked with a choked voice: "My daughter--couldst thou be content to wed yon Italian?" The words had scarcely passed his lips when the girl sprang to her feet, gazing with wild eyes at her questioner. "Kill me, my father, but give me not to yon awful, hateful man. Besides--" and with a look of agonized entreaty she turned towards Don Diego--"besides, am I not already given by you to another?" "And to another who has both the will and the power to claim the fulfilment of the promise," exclaimed Montoro de Diego, coming forward, and clasping the girl's hand in his with an air of iron resolution. Once again there was a heavy silence in the darkening chamber, and when it was broken the hearers felt scarcely less oppressed by the sound, although the words themselves seemed to speak of happiness.