tangled hair bristling backwards, and his fists clenched, he was always ruminating the same gall: 'He has attempted her virtue, he has attacked my honour, he is guilty on two counts and deserves a double death.’ But something like terror was mixed with his rage when he learned that Don Ruy no longer awaited Donna Leonor in the square, nor amorously watched the walls of his great house, nor entered the church when she was praying there on Sundays, and that he kept himself so entirely foreign to her that, one morning, when he was standing close to the arcade, and must distinctly have heard the door through which she was about to appear creak and open, he had remained with his back turned, without moving, laughing with a stout knight who was reading to him from a parchment. Such well-affected indifference could only serve, for sure, thought Don Alonso, to hide some very evil purpose! What was the clever deceiver plotting now? Everything in the ill-tempered _fidalgo_ became intensified--jealousy, rancour, vigilance, regret for his hoary and ugly old age. In the calm of Donna Leonor he suspected art and stratagem, and straightway forbade her visits to Our Lady of the Pillar. On the accustomed mornings, he ran to the church to say the rosary and carry the excuses of Donna Leonor--‘who cannot come’ (he murmured, bowed before the altar), 'for the reason you know, most pure Virgin.’ He carefully visited and strengthened the black bolts of every gate of his mansion, and at night loosed two mastiffs in the shadows of the walled garden. At the head of his great bed, next to the table which carried his lamp, reliquary, and a cup of wine hot with cinnamon and cloves to invigorate his forces, there always shone a long, naked sword. But with all these precautions he scarcely slept, and at every moment raised himself up in alarm from between the deep pillows, and clawed Donna Leonor with rough and eager hands that bruised her neck, to hiss very low in his torment, 'Say you love me only.’ Afterwards, when dawn came, he perched himself up to watch, like a falcon, the windows of Don Ruy. He never caught sight of him now, either at the church door at the hour of Mass, or returning on horseback from the country at the ringing of the Angelus; and perceiving that he had disappeared from his customary haunts and turns, he suspected his presence all the more in Donna Leonor’s heart. At length, one night, after he had trodden the gallery flags for a long while, secretly revolving suspicion and hatred, he cried out for his steward, and ordered packs and saddle animals to be got ready. He would leave early at daybreak with Donna Leonor for his property at Cabril, two leagues distant from Segovia! The departure did not take place at dawn, like the flight of a miser who goes to hide his treasure far away, but was carried out with solemnity and at leisure. The litter stood waiting long hours before the arcade with its curtains