Doña Emilia rose, no one making any attempt to prevent her. She went up to her daughter, sat down by her side, and raising her beautiful head, laid it gently on her knees. She gazed at her tenderly for a moment, then, after removing the long curls of light hair which veiled her face, she covered it with kisses, murmuring in a soft voice, but with an accent of ineffable tenderness-- "Poor, dear soul, her heart did not deceive her, her presentiments were true. Alas! Why did I not put faith in her words? Oh, my adored daughter! I alone am the cause of this frightful misfortune. Forgive me, forgive me!" And two burning tears, which the feeling of her position had been unable to draw from her, fell on the girl's forehead. The latter feebly opened her eyes. "Mother," she murmured, in her childish voice. "Oh, mother, how I am suffering!" "Alas, poor darling!" Doña Emilia replied, "I am suffering too; but what should I care for pain if I knew you were in safety? I am accustomed to suffer, while you, alas!--" She ceased, and a sigh burst from her bosom. The maiden continued-- "Courage, mother; perhaps all is not lost yet, and one hope is left us." "A hope, poor child! Yes," she replied, bitterly, "that the men who hold us prisoners may take pity on us, and kill us at once, instead of torturing us." "But," Doña Diana said, whose strength was gradually returning, and who felt her courage coming back, "Don Melchior is not a prisoner. He has escaped." "I saw Don Melchior fall by our side, beneath the blows of one of the ferocious men who captured us." "He is dead!" she exclaimed, with a shriek of terror and despair. "No, no," her mother objected eagerly, terrified by this grief, "I hope not. Perhaps he has succeeded in escaping." "Oh, no, I do not believe you, mother. He must be dead, since he is not by our side. Don Melchior would never have consented to fly and abandon us." "It is probable, my child, that he has fled, in order to fetch assistance. What could he have done, alone, against these men? Nothing. He would have fallen without any advantage for us or himself. His flight, on the contrary--and I really believe that he has succeeded in escaping--leaves us a hope." The girl shook her head doubtfully. "You wish to restore my courage, thank you, mother," she answered, "but it is not necessary. I am strong, and shall be able to endure without a murmur the sufferings which fate has in store for me." "Very good, daughter. I am pleased to hear you speak in that way. Rise, my child, these men only respect the stoical courage of the condemned wretch who laughs amid his tortures; so we will not give them the spectacle of our weakness. By haughty behaviour we may succeed in inspiring these men with respect, if not with commiseration." The girl rose with passive obedience. "Alas!" she murmured, "I am not like you, mother; I feel that my strength is not equal to my courage."