He to his splendid tent--she to imprisonment; and yet she had cried, “VENGEANCE SHALL BE MINE.” * * * * * Turn we to Castellor, where are Maurico and Leonora. As they stood near the balcony, all in all to each other, she heard the distant clash of arms. “Prythee, wherefore that sound?” “Thou art so brave that I fear not to tell thee all. The Count di Luna is encamped but a short mile away. Before the night is gone he will have besieged this castle. Nay, trouble not--your courage and our swords will be victorious. It is, I know, a weary prelude to our marriage, dearest. Of victory I am sure--yet should I fall--my last thought will be of thee--only of thee--Hark!--they await us in the chapel.” As he spoke, the chanting in the neighboring chapel reached their ears, and each knew that the priest was waiting to join their hands. They were moving towards the holy place when a soldier ran quickly in, saying he had woeful news. The gipsey Azucena--was taken. “Azucena!” “They say--she will be burnt!” “Ah! the air grows hot and dark about me.” The lady Leonora put her hand to the troubadour’s brow, but he put it aside and cried--“My mother--they would slay my mother.” “Thy mother!” Then she bade him take arms. No fear had she now. Victory must be with him who fought to save a mother! “Onward!” she cried. She buckled on his sword, and was the first to cry, “farewell.” Her last words were “love” and “victory!” PART IV.--VENGEANCE. Might is not always for the just. Were it so always, where would be the honor of virtue? Maurico was conquered, and the castle fell into the hands of his enemy the Count Di Luna. The minstrel languished in prison, with but one consolation in this life--the presence of his mother. They were imprisoned together, that to their miseries might be added the pain of a last separation. Upon the fall of the castle, the Lady Leonora took flight, hoping against hope. But when she heard he was condemned to death, she came weeping to the foot of the castle, and leant her face against its wall. With her came the faithful soldier, who had ever been at Maurico’s right hand--who had told him of his mother’s capture, and who had escaped from the battle at the last moment, when he saw his master taken prisoner, and all hope had fled. She bade her faithful escort leave her, and then hope whispered that perchance she could save him. And when she trembled she looked at a ring she wore, and found new courage. Swelling on the night air came the dirge of the monks within the castle-- “Miserere for him whose death is nigh; Who from life and its joys must be quickly hurled; Miserere for one who, a moment more, Must bid farewell to this dreary world.” The solemn words made her tremble and look for a moment with fear upon the ring she wore; but the next instant she started forward with horror, for she heard his voice--