The wonderful beauty of his daughter, the Doña Ysabel, had somehow—in spite of the seclusion in which she was kept—become proverbial, and the fame thereof had spread from Gibraltar to the Pyrenees. Not a caballero of that chivalric country but would have given his best steed for one glance from the eyes of the hidalgo’s daughter—eyes which shrouded under their long lashes, were like diamonds winning across the midnight. Her hair was silky and soft, darker and more glossy than the raven’s wing—and in such luxuriance did it grow that she might almost have hid herself in it, as did “the lady of the golden locks” in the fairy tale. Her face was fitful as an April day. It was the clear and faithful mirror to the warmest, purest heart in all Spain. And never did a young heart beat within a lighter and more graceful form than that of the Doña Ysabel. The castle where the hidalgo resided with his daughter was built on a rocky eminence, in one of the wildest parts of the country. Tradition said it had been erected by a powerful and wealthy Moor, from whom it had been conquered by the strong arm of one of the present occupant’s ancestors. The father of Ysabel had resided there but rarely until the death of his wife; but, after that event, he had retired almost broken-hearted to this wild retreat. Here, from early childhood, the Lady Ysabel had been brought up. Wanting the care of a mother, she had always been left to have her own way, and a more self-willed, impetuous sylph never dashed the dew from the wild flowers that grew so luxuriantly around the Moorish castle. One day, when the Doña Ysabel had nearly attained her sevententh year, the Count de Llenaro, her father, stood within the deep embrasure of the richly carved corridor, absorbed in thought. His eyes were fixed on the shadows that played so fancifully on the rocks below. A light step was heard and a fairy form entered the apartment. “_Bella mi cara nina_, I was thinking of thee, I would speak with thee.” And the gentle girl stood beside the proud lord. “What wouldst thou my father?” The maiden’s voice was low and silvery soft. Her dark eye looked up into her father’s with an expression soft and confiding as childhood. One little snow-white hand rested upon his shoulder, while the other nestled within his own. “How old are you, Ysy?” “I shall be seventeen come next Michaelmas.” “’Tis even as I thought. Thou art getting to be a great girl, Belle,—I have something to say to thee; wilt thou listen?” “Dear papa, thy word is my law.” “Is it so?” and the father fixed his eyes upon the girl with a look so penetrating that her own eye fell, and the rich warm blood rushed from her young heart and burnt upon her brow. Llenaro seated himself upon a low _turco_, and drawing his child towards him, he fondly kissed her glowing cheek.