Ysabel left to herself mechanically sought the garden. She wandered over her favorite haunts, scarce knowing what she did. Her heart, her thoughts were still as the grave. She reached her bower—the little vine-clad bower, where the page and she had so often sat listening to the music of each other’s voices. And there, on the very seat where they were wont to sit—was Jose! the page! “Ysabel! beloved!” exclaimed he in unfeigned delight—and the girl was in his arms. “Dearest, best, my gentle Ysabel! am I once more permitted to see thee?—to clasp thee to my heart? But, sweetest, how thou hast changed. How pale thou art. Go with me dearest, I will be thy father, brother, husband, friend. Leave this hated castle—now—speak, dear one, wilt thou go with me? Dear, _dear_ Ysabel, tell me.” “Jose, I cannot—I have promised to become his bride!” “But, dearest, they shall not force thee to do what thou dost not wish.” “Jose, I had my own free choice.” “And thou didst choose—” “To become his bride.” “Will nothing induce thee to alter thy determination?” “_Nothing!_” “Good bye, Ysabel.” “Jose! Dear Jose—” but the page was gone. The next morning found the lady Ysabel in the spot where the page had left her. Then followed many days of sickness. Her life was despaired of. Day after day she lay, pale, cold, insensible. Reason had forsaken her throne. Her sweet smiles were gone; and the speaking glances of her dewy eyes had fled. Her voice too—for she had not spoken since that night. Even the pulsations of her heart were silent. Life alone remained—life without its light. And how her father watched over her—and how bitterly he lamented, and cursed himself for having brought her thus. At length light shone in her eyes—the light of life. Morning dawned in upon the darkness of her soul. “_Good bye, Ysabel_,” said she. “My own child, what dost thou say?” asked the father, bending anxiously over her. “Good bye, Ysabel—” and she looked up in her father’s face and smiled.—_That smile!_ it haunted him to his grave! “Are you better, my own Ysabel? my dearest child?” “Yes papa,—I am well. What a strange dream I have had. Ah! now I recollect—” and she sunk into a gentle sleep. Day by day she gained health and strength. The father never left her side. “Papa,” said she one day, “will you let me see that paper again? you know the one I mean.” “No, my child, you never need see or think of it.” “Do let me take it, papa—you do not know how well and strong I am—do, dearest papa?” And the father was prevailed upon. She saw she could save her father from ruin, and her mind was made. “How old am I, papa?” “Three weeks ago saw you seventeen.” “Does the—does my future husband know of my illness?” “He has sent repeatedly to inquire after your health. His courier was here this morning.” “Will you send him word I am well—and am ready in two weeks from now to become his wife?” “Are you in earnest, Ysabel?” “Perfectly so.” “Is it of your own free will you speak?”