"Say no more, senor capitan," he rejoined, interrupting me; "you have taken such a friendly interest in my misfortunes--far beyond what your duty requires--that I have no hesitation in telling you all. Indeed, it is essential I should do so. Hear me, then." Without repeating Don Eusebio's words--with all the circumlocution rendered appropriate by paternal affection, and the sorrow from which he suffered--I learnt from him what might have caused me greater surprise, but for the chance conversation to which I had listened in the Alameda. The Poblano had spoken the truth to his friend from Yucatan. Not only had Don Eusebio threatened to immure his daughter in a nunnery; but was actually on his way to carry the threat into execution, when stopped by the _salteadores_! Although accompanied by both his daughters, but one of them was to be consigned to her living tomb--the aristocratic convent of _La Conception_, in the city of Mexico--the abode of some of Mexico's fairest _muchachas_. "Which of your daughters?" I asked with such eager _empressement_ as to startle Don Eusebio, and call forth an interrogative exclamation. "Oh!" I answered, with an effort to gloss over my confusion, "I understood you to say you had _two_ daughters. Of course one is older than the other--that is, if they be not twins?" "No senor; they are not twins. One is two years the elder. It was she who intended to devote herself to the service of God. _Por dios_!" he continued, his brow shadowing as he spoke, "Both must do so now. There is no other future for them--_pobres ninas_!" I understood the significance of the sad speech, and remained silent. After a pause, he proceeded, "It was _Dolores_, my eldest girl, who intended to take the veil." "Was it of her own free will?" I asked. I could see that the question caused embarrassment. My emotions at the moment were not less powerful--not less painful--than his. "Pardon me," I continued, "for making so free with your family affairs; which, of course, cannot in any way concern me. It was a mere inadvertence--quite unintentional--I assure you." "O, sir! have I not promised to tell you all--you who have so nobly espoused our cause; you who are about to imperil your precious life for the safety of my children! Why should I conceal from you aught that appertains to their welfare?" "It is true," he continued, after a short interval of silence, "true, that my daughter was not altogether reconciled to the step. I myself was inciting her to take it. I had my reasons, senor; and I am sure, that on hearing them, you will approve of what I intended doing. It was for her happiness; for the honour of our family name and the glory of God--which last should be the chief end and act of every true Christian." The solemn speech awed me into silence. I made no reply, but stood awaiting the revelation.