The service had begun when he entered the sacred edifice. Advancing to the seat he had occupied the previous morning, he perceived that the young lady and her duenna were already settled in their seats, and, so far as outward appearances testified, engaged in their devotions. But though he was gratified at their punctual attendance, his gratification was not without alloy; for the young lady, from whatever reason, wore a close veil over her face, and he did not receive one glance from her during the whole service. He was, however, unable to keep his eyes from her, and, on the service being concluded, they followed her, as on the day previous, to the church-porch. She would, he thought, at least give him a parting glance; she would at least raise her veil as she made her egress; but she passed out without so much as looking round. Hildebrand’s cheeks glowed with resentment, not unmingled with shame, as his vanity received this mortifying blow. He was so taken aback, indeed, that he remained rooted to his seat, and it was not till the silence around warned him that he was almost the only person in the chapel, and, consequently, that it was high time to take his departure, that the first effects of his disappointment began to subside. Then, gathering his cloak about him, he sprang to his feet, and walked hastily forth. As he was passing through the church-porch, he felt some one touch him behind. Turning round, his eye fell on an old woman, in whom, despite of her close veil, he immediately recognised the Spanish maiden’s duenna. “Senhor,” said this person, “thou hast made me wait long: I have a billet for thee.” And, drawing her hand from under her mantilla, she disclosed a sealed billet, which, without further speech, she placed in his eager hands. “Thanks, thanks!” answered Hildebrand, slipping a ring from his finger, and dropping it into the withered palm of the duenna. The latter person, quietly closing her hand over her costly guerdon, raised its forefinger to her lips, and, with this caution, broke away. It may well be supposed, from his previous demeanour, that Hildebrand’s impatience to view and peruse the welcome billet was excessive. Fearful that he might be watched, however, he restrained his curiosity, and held the billet close in his hand, under the fold of his cloak, till he reached a retired part of the city-quay. Then, drawing it forth, he tore it open and read these words:-- “If thy looks belie not thy heart, and thou canst love truly, be under the porch of the cathedral, at the southern entrance, this even, at ten of the clock.”