“My father,” said the dying Isidora, “you pronounced me forgiven.”--“Yes, my daughter,” said the priest, “you have assured me you are innocent of the death of your infant.”--“You never could have believed me guilty,” said Isidora, raising herself on her pallet at the appeal--“the consciousness of _its_ existence alone would have kept me alive, even in my prison. Oh, my father, how was it possible it could live, buried with me in this dreadful place almost as soon as it respired? Even the morbid nourishment it received from me was dried up when my sentence was read. It moaned all night--towards morning its moans grew fainter, and I was glad--at last they ceased, and I was very--happy!” But, as she talked of this fearful happiness, she wept. “My daughter, is your heart disengaged from that awful and disastrous tie that bound it to misfortune here, and to perdition hereafter?” It was long before she could answer; at length she said in a broken voice, “My father, I have not now strength to search or to struggle with my heart. Death must very soon break every tie that was twined with it, and it is useless to anticipate my liberation; the effort would be agony--fruitless agony, for, while I live, I must love my destroyer! Alas! in being the enemy of mankind, was not his hostility to me inevitable and fatal? In rejecting his last terrible temptation--in resigning him to his destiny, and preferring submission to my own, I feel my triumph complete, and my salvation assured.”--“Daughter, I do not comprehend you.”--“Melmoth,” said Isidora, with a strong effort, “Melmoth was here last night--within the walls of the Inquisition--within this very cell!” The priest crossed himself with marks of the profoundest horror, and, as the wind swept hollowly through the long passage, almost expected the shaken door would burst open, and disclose the figure of the Wanderer. * * * * * * *