“Ysabel, I will! in as few words as possible. A year ago, you may remember, Talavera was here. He has not been here since. A short time after that, his last visit, the page came—though it is not of him I would speak. We played—Talavera and I. At first I won—in the success of the moment I staked high—and lost. I still played on—every throw swept off acre after acre of the lands my fathers owned. Midnight saw me without a farthing—and without a foot of earth to call my own. Then came a bond. I signed it. It gave me back my broad lands—my wealth—but it deprived me of the only thing I had on earth to love—of you, my Ysabel! See! here is the bond.” The lady’s heart was still—very still—so still it almost frightened her. Her cheek, lips, hands, were cold and bloodless. It seemed as though her blood had all gone to her heart—and frozen there! Her eye was passionless, it was so calm. She held the open paper before her, and without reading or seeing, she read and saw enough to know that the fair grounds and castle of Ysolo-Rosse—where she had lived from her infancy—where her father had loved her mother—were to go into the hands of the Talavera, unless she became his bride. “Ysabel, I have sworn thou shalt be his bride, but I will recall my oath if thou sayest so. What is thy decision?” “I will wed him,” replied the girl. Llenaro clasped her to his heart, and kissing her cold brow, he added, “The day thou art seventeen was the day decided upon—it will be here in a week. But if ’twill be too soon, no doubt the Marquis will”— “’Twill not be too soon.” “Ysabel, thou frightenest me, thou art so pale—I will not force thee into what would be thy unhappiness.” “Nay, papa, I had much rather be unhappy myself than to see thee so. But I will not be. To-morrow thou shalt see me more cheerful.” The wily lord had learned the way to make his daughter’s will his own. He loved that daughter, and felt a father’s pity for her. But he thought although she suffered then—and it pained him to the soul to see it—she would soon forget her youthful passion, and, as the wife of the Talavera, she would gradually learn to be happy. Her future husband was all that was noble and good—all this thought the father—and then he thought “the Castle of Ysolo-Rosse will still be mine.” The father’s conscience was _almost_ quieted. “I have foresworn playing, Belle,” said he, sadly, “never, should I live forever, will another card pass through my hands. Ysabel, my darling child! do not look so sad,—seek the cool air, it will revive thee. Go and gather thy favorite wild flowers: they will divert thy mind from its sorrow. My noble, generous girl.” He fondly kissed his child and then withdrew.