“Look!” cry the maidens exultingly, “can you compare Zora with Florinda?” And in their eagerness the giddy group tear asunder the sheltering draperies which cling about her. Alas! little did they know, these joyous maidens, that the fate of the Gothic kingdom turned on the balance of their childish games, and that, mere puppets in the hands of fate, they were destined to be the instruments of destruction to their country! In the gloom that precedes the setting of the sun, amid the dusky shadows of huge-leaved plants and myrtle hedges which broke the space into squares in every direction, Don Roderich had stolen from the Alcazar to enjoy the evening freshness and to visit the queen. Hearing from afar the bursts of girlish laughter, at the contest of beauty between dark and fair, he looked out from the latticed _mirador_ of the pavilion, and beheld the undraped form of Florinda before she could escape from the hands of her companions. That glance is fatal. Forgetful of the sacred pledges given to her father, forgetful of his honour as a knight and his gratitude as a king, a mighty passion rises within his breast. But Florinda gives no response; his fervid glances are met with downcast eyes, and a blush rises on her cheek as she involuntarily approaches him. This does but serve to fan his lawless love; and so great is his infatuation he cannot persuade himself that she does not return it. His whole soul is as a furnace, which consumes his life. Speak to her he must, and a wicked hope whispers it will not be in vain! Meeting her one day, a little later, by chance in the queen’s antechamber, he called her to him, and presented to her his hand. “Sweet one,” says he, in a voice he can scarcely command, every pulse within him beating tumultuously, “a thorn has sorely pricked me, can you draw it out?” Florinda, who unconsciously has come rather to fear him, kneels at his feet and takes his hand in hers. At the touch of her light fingers a tremor runs through his frame. Is this slight girl to resist the transports that shake his being to the core, as the fury of the tempest shakes the light leaves? As she kneels the tresses of her auburn hair fall as a veil around her, and blush after blush flushes her cheeks. Vainly she seeks for the thorn in Don Roderich’s hand. In her surprise she lifts her eyes to his, which are bent on her with ill-controlled passion; then, starting to her feet in confusion, “My lord,” she says, retreating from where he stands leaning against a painted pillar, his jewelled cap pressed down upon his brows, “there is no thorn.” She turns to go, filled with an apprehension she cannot explain, but he catches her hand, and presses it to his heart. “Here, here is the thorn, Florinda; will you pluck _that_ out?” “My lord, my lord,” cries the alarmed girl, “I do not catch your meaning.”