Uttering these words, the old duenna turned away, and, with a quick step, passed out into the cathedral-close. Hildebrand followed her, a few paces in her rear, to a neighbouring street, which led them to the other end of the city. Here, turning into a by-street, they passed along the outside of a dead wall to a small doorway, inserted in the wall, some distance from any dwelling. The old woman came to a stand before the door, and, raising her hand over her eyes, looked narrowly round, on either side, to see that no one was about. It was very dark, and she could not see far; but she seemed, after one glance around, to be satisfied on this score, and turned to the door again. A key which she drew from her vest, and inserted in the lock, quickly opened the door, and she whispered Hildebrand to enter. Passing down two or three steps, Hildebrand found himself in a large garden, which spread round, on either side of the walk he was standing on, further than he could see. Having ascertained this, he was turning to look for his guide, when he descried the figure of another female, somewhat taller than the duenna, standing against a contiguous tree. A thought struck him that it was his mistress, and, without further pause, he sprang lightly to her side. The lady’s arms were folded in the fall of her mantilla, but Hildebrand, gently pushing that aside, easily possessed himself of her trembling hand. As he did so, he came before her, and turned his eyes on her face. Notwithstanding that he could not see very clearly, he readily distinguished the adorable features of his mistress, and the soft light that, in defiance of the darkness, beamed in her peerless eyes. He could not, perhaps, discern the warm glow of confusion, mingled with pleasure, that his presence had called to her cheek, but her feelings were sufficiently revealed to him by the trembling of her delicate hand. Love, whose refined sensibilities are entirely swayed by example, being so subject to impulse, and the action of passing influences, would have responded to this confusion; and the rapture of the moment would have been locked in silence, and only seen in the excess of feeling. But Hildebrand was only a gallant, not a lover; and he was at no loss for words--earnest and musical, too, though lacking in sincerity--in which he could address his mistress. Readiness of compliment is a characteristic trait, if one may so speak, of that passion which springs only from admiration, in contradistinction to that which flows, with a gentler wave, and a more constant and regular current, from the purer source of affection. In the one passion, all is but skin-deep; in the other, it is heart-deep: the first is, like the body, mortal; but the other is an emblem of the soul, and is quick, etherial, and undying.