“It was not from my hand,” Hilo interrupted. “Heaven be praised, for as all here can witness you are my son and not De Ladron’s.” At these words, Hilo started and turned pale, but his face was instantly flushed with passion. “It is a base lie—a lie,” he exclaimed through his teeth, scowling around. “It is a shallow trick to cheat me out of my inheritance at the last gasp.” “Brother!” sobbed out Viola, deprecatingly. “Sir—son,” Inique cried, “I cannot disprove your bitter words by leaving you a fortune of my own; for the real son of De Ladron, whom I made an idiot, is the heir of the estate I hold. Forgive what actual wrong I have done you as a parent, remembering how soon the end of us both must be.” Before he ceased speaking, a figure, coming no one knew whence, in the consternation of the moment, hobbled between, and cast a baneful look on Inique from a pair of ferret eyes sparkling with rage and malice. Her rage was so great that she mouthed and champed with her old toothless jaws, before a word could be emitted. The wounded knight sat bolt upright in bed, gazing at her wildly. “Where is my boy—speak woman, speak?” he cried, with a sudden return of strength and voice. “Food for fishes—ah ha! food for fishes!” She mumbled out, pointing with her crooked finger mockingly. “Oh, heaven be merciful! he is dying—Hermosa—Don Pedro—help!” Viola exclaimed, receiving the cavalier’s weight in her quickly opened arms. “Yes, yes, he’s dying at last,” the crone screamed “I killed him—me and my son. He’s cheated us both, but we’ve paid him back, and I’ve got money enough saved up to keep you in pocket money, my pretty game-chick.” “Hag!” Hilo ejaculated, shaking loose the old woman’s clutch on his sleeve. “Hey now,” she retorted, threatening him with her finger, “mind what I say. I’ve gold enough for both, without that swindler’s there. I wanted you to have that too. I would have been an honest girl, but for him, and he owed you a living; so I put you in place of your namesake, when a baby. I’ve been caring for you ever since. I wouldn’t let you marry who you wanted, because I wanted you to marry somebody richer than your French countess.” “She devil—I spit on you,” her son broke in furiously. “Is this my reward?” she shrieked, “mind, I have gold which you’ll never handle—you might if you were dutiful.” And mutually vilifying each other, the mother and her offspring, were carried out from the ante-chamber by the guards of the latter. Reader, the footlights begin to burn dim—one of the chief personages of this story, without so much will left of all his willfulness, to put his blind arms about his daughter, and confess his short-comings, and without a tatter hanging about him of former arrogance, lies expiring—the orchestra plays a dirge—the drop scene comes slowly down—all is over. One act more, and a short one closes the drama.