In the mean time, the good Padre Aneres was seated in one of the southern wings of the _hacienda_, recruiting his energies, after an exhausting journey of two miles from _Embocadura_. The robes and appointments of his clerical office were arranged with a neatness which scarcely distinguished his personal appearance; for he was about to celebrate a sacrament, which he viewed as hardly less important than the last unction administered to the dying—to which, indeed, it furnished no indistinct parallel. Preparatory, however, to the performance of the ceremony, he was fortifying himself with a liberal supply of delicate viands—that to which he applied himself most frequently being a large silver bowl of red Parras wine. He had been thus agreeably occupied for half an hour or more after his arrival, and having recovered his breath, began to feel comfortable again, when a hasty but timid knock was heard at the door. The worthy _padre_ pushed the bowl of wine a little farther from him, hastily swallowed the morsel in his mouth, and having settled himself in an attitude of meditation, gave a gentle invitation to enter. The door was pushed timidly open, and the young messenger presented himself, in most singular plight. His clothes were studiously disarranged; his hair was disheveled, and covered with dust and ashes, while his eyes gave signs of recent violent weeping. “_Oh, padre!_” he exclaimed, in evident distress, throwing himself at the good Father’s feet. “_Peccavi! Peccavi!_ I have sinned! I have sinned! O, Father! Hear me, and forgive.” The worthy priest was startled at this exhibition of grief, so much more intense than he was accustomed to see; for the penitent beat his breast, and humbled himself upon his knees in the most abandoned manner. “Calm yourself, my son,” said the pastor, “and remember that mercy may be extended to the guiltiest of mortals.” “_Confiteor! Confiteor!_” rapidly continued the sinner. “Oh, _padre_! Pity and forgive! _Peccavi! Peccavi! O, Miseracordia!_” “Entrust your sin to the Representative of Heaven,” gently urged the Father, “and never despair of God’s mercy.” “Not here! O, not here!” exclaimed the youth, springing to his feet and rushing to the door. “There are spies here—ears listening for the confession, which must be given to you alone.” “Who dares to penetrate the secrets of the Confessional?” demanded the _padre_, his little black eyes twinkling with indignation. “The count and his spies,” answered the youth. “We must leave the house—we must go forth into the night, for my soul is burthened with sin, and the load must be lifted. Come!” He seized the confessor by the robe and dragged him toward the door, sobbing “_Peccavi! Peccavi!_” all the time. “But, my son,” hesitated the priest, “the count is—”