Love had humiliated and degraded the count, as it hath humiliated and degraded many a better man. As he could not honestly possess himself of the Lady Leonora, he had now come to steal her--tear her away from the altar. He had not come alone, for love had also made him a coward. He had brought with him a score or so of his followers to snatch her from amongst a host of women. See them hiding behind pillars, and in shadows, creeping softly and meanly, as robbers and cowards do. Then came the widowed Lady Leonora, surrounded by old friends, who would fain accompany her to the door of her life-long prison. She sighed as she heard the low religious chant from within the walls of the convent--henceforth to shut in all her hopes. But she was determined. He was dead--her love. Killed on the battle-field, and she would mourn for him in the silence of a convent cell. “With good, hearty old friends,” said she to the attendants about her, “see me to the altar, and then--a long farewell.” But as she turned towards the sacred door the count came quickly from behind a broken pillar, and tremblingly said, “Nought can save thee--thou art mine.” “Mercy!” “There is no Maurico now to save thee. He is dead--he is dead.” He ran towards her, but suddenly he stopped, and trembled like a coward, as he was. For there, standing between him and his expected prize, was the minstrel, Maurico himself! Standing there was the very man he had seen fall on the field; or--or, was it his shade? And Leonora? After an instant of doubt and hesitation--for she, too, believed her lover was not of this world--she ran to him, and, with a great cry, threw herself upon his breast. The consternation of the dastardly count hardly gave him much time for deliberation; but, on a signal, his followers swarmed out from their hiding places, and surrounded the lovers. But they reckoned without their host. The next instant Maurico and the Lady Leonora were protected by trusty arms. In vain the count drew his sword and rushed upon the troubadour. Twenty swords were pointed at him--twenty swords that in an instant would have touched his heart. But their leader, Maurico, who still suffered from his wound, bade them spare him. So the count yet stood alive in the midst of his followers. Stood unsubdued by the mercy which had now been shown him; stood, and vowed vengeance against his gentle foe; stood and cursed him as he led the lady away. Away from him, the rival; away from the convent, away to Castellor, which had fallen into the rebels’ hands, and whose governor was Maurico, the Warrior Minstrel. PART III.--THE GIPSEY’S SON. Surely, mercy may sometimes be a fault, if extended to a heartless man.