"Give me thy hand, Magdalena," he said, with an action and voice rather indicating the familiarity of a patron than that of a presumptuous suitor: "Thou art right; thou art a creature after mine own heart; and I swear to thee, I will do thee no wrong, nor suffer it to be done thee by another. Heed not what may be said of thee; my dogs would bay an angel, should one condescend to pay them a visit. Thy cloister-like garments are not amiss;--there be more that venerate than malign thee, for this reason; and, thank heaven, the padre Olmedo finds no sin in thy wearing them. Wilt thou be seated? There is peace between us; let there be confidence. What hast thou to ask of me, Magdalena? Thy revenge is at hand." The maiden returned the scrutinizing look of the general with one which, if not so piercing, was at least quite as steady: "Your excellency has thrice called me, who call myself Infeliz, by a name not authorized by any revealments of mine," she said: "you speak also of revenge,--of _my_ revenge!--Yes," she muttered, with a quivering lip; "this is a thing to be thought of, not spoken." She paused a moment, and Cortes, casting a quick eye round the apartment, said, in a voice confidentially low and insinuating, "I would the story had come from yourself. But it matters not,--I have it; and disguise is no longer availing. You lose nothing by the change, for I see, thy spirit hath the elements of mine own. Ah! water in the desert! the first kiss of a lover! breath to the suffocating!--such is revenge to the soul of the mighty!--I know thee, thy history and thy purpose.--I have dandled the boy Hilario upon my knee!" The strong and meaning stress laid upon the last abrupt words, only served to drive the colour from the maiden's cheeks and lips. In all other respects, she remained calm and collected, and replied gravely,-- "The tale comes from the Alguazil Villafana--" "Hah!" said Cortes, in surprise; "how knowest thou that?" "Because there is no other,--no other, save _one_, who will not speak it,--in all this land, who knows so much of me; and because, were there twenty, the man whom heaven has cursed with the industrious treachery of a spider, and the rage to entangle all things in his flimsy web, would be the first to betray me." "Thou sayst the truth of Villafana," said Cortes, with a laugh of peculiar exultation. "In spirit and intention, he is the insect you have named; but yet he spins his web, less like the spider, with the chance of destroying, than the silken-caterpillar, that toils for his master, who will smother him in his work, as soon as it is perfected. Ay, thy penetration is clear, thy conception just; the knave is, in all things, a traitor,--a double, a triple,--a centupled traitor!" "And you both spare him, and give him the means of multiplying his dangerous villanies?"