"You are mad," he exclaimed with a bitter laugh. "Who says anything about death, you weak creatures? Impelled by a nervous excitement which will soon abandon you, you try in vain to deceive me by deceiving yourselves. Death is nothing, but suffering is everything." "Heaven will give us the necessary strength to support it," Doña Emilia answered. "Unhappy woman! Even supposing you can endure a slow death of several hours, will you expose your daughter to it?" The Indian had hit the mark. Doña Emilia felt all her courage abandon her. She hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears. "Villain!" the young lady exclaimed passionately, "Even if my mother, blinded by her tenderness for me, were so weak as to consent to the odious compact which you proposed to us, I would prefer death, and would kill myself with my own hand, sooner than belong to you." The Indian burst into the yell of a wild beast. "It is too much, proud Spanish girl!" he shouted furiously. "Your fate is decided. Follow me!" "Show me the way," the noble maiden said proudly. "The hangman should go before his victims. Come, mother, lean on my arm. I am strong, for I already feel as if I no longer belonged to this world. Dry your tears and raise your head, mother. Do not let these monsters suppose that your courage fails you." "Alas!" Doña Emilia answered, as she mechanically passed her arm through her daughter's, "Poor child, I am the cause of your death. Oh forgive me! Forgive me!" "Forgive you, mother? What? That I am about to die with you? Oh, could I ever hope for greater happiness!" "I implore you, daughter, not to let your filial affection deceive you. I see it now. I was mad, and did wrong in exhorting you to die. Death is horrible at your age, my child, when you have scarce entered upon life and all still appears smiling." "All the better, mother," the maiden answered, kissing her forehead. "I have only known the sweets of life; does not that make me the happier?" "Oh, oh, woe is me!" Doña Emilia exclaimed, as she twined her arms desperately; "I have killed my daughter." The Indian listened gloomy and pensive; a poignant remorse was silently gnawing his heart. "Mother," Doña Diana said, kneeling piously before her, as she was wont to do each night in happier times; "mother, you are a holy woman; mother, bless your child." "Oh, bless you, bless you; may God hear the prayer I offer up, and withdraw from you this frightful cup, to offer it to me alone." The maiden rose. Her face shone with a pure and holy joy; never had her features reflected such a sublime expression; she was lovely, with the beauty of Virgin and Martyr. "Let us go," she said, in a tone of authority which overpowered her mother's grief, "we should not keep our murderers waiting."