"By my conscience," said Cortes, quickly, "methinks I can divine the mystery: but of that anon. Hark thee, friend Camarga, dost thou still burn for this wretched man's life? I tell thee, there is much intercession made for him. It was but a moment since that the Barba-Roxa,--a good soldier, i'faith,--made certain fierce moans for him, mingled with divers mutinous reproaches. I vow to heaven, I could have struck the knave dead, but that he saved my life at Xochimilco." "I have heard that Juan Lerma did the same thing, on the plains of Tlascala," replied Camarga, dryly. "Thou art deceived!" exclaimed Don Hernan, with a sudden shudder. "The attempt, I grant you, the attempt be made; but I needed no help. Yet do I remember the act; and, by heaven, I would I might forgive him,--I would I might! I would I might! for the thought of judging him to death, is like a wolf in my bosom. Once I loved him as my son,--yes, as my very son," he repeated, with extraordinary agitation; "and when he played with my little children, I swear, I looked upon him but as their elder brother. What will men say of the act, since they cannot know the cause?" Apparently Camarga looked upon this burst of relenting feeling, (for such it really was,) with too much dissatisfaction and alarm, to notice the allusion to a cause differing from any with which he was acquainted. He exclaimed, hastily, and with a darkening visage, "If open mutiny and resistance be not excuse enough, have I not spoken an argument that should steel thy heart for ever? Shall I utter it again? I swear to thee then, that this miserable creature, Magdalena,--this wretch that even thou wouldst have made the slave of thy pleasures, and thereby added upon thy soul a sin never to be forgiven,--no, never!--is a true NUN,--forsworn, lost, condemned! Wilt thou refuse to punish the author of a horrible impiety? Would that I had strangled her, when an infant, though with mine own hand!--Thou talkest of a wolf in thy bosom; couldst thou feel one fang of the agony, that this act of horror has planted in mine, thou wouldst deem thyself happy. Let the wretch die: ask not for further cause; think not of any." "The cause is, indeed, enough," said Cortes, crossing himself with dread, "to ensure not death only, but a death at the stake of fire; and I am not one to think the punishment should be made easy. I could tell thee a story of the end of broken vows, and the vengeance of God upon the robber of convents; but it needs not.--Sleep in thy grave, poor wretch! and be forgotten." He muttered a few words to himself, and then banishing, with an effort, what seemed a mournful recollection, he resumed,--"Tell me but one thing, Camarga, and I am satisfied. The cause is enough, (though this is a crime to be judged by ecclesiastics,) to ensure the young man's fate; but it is _not_ enough to explain the rancour of thy hatred. Speak me the truth--Is this unhappy creature child of thine?"