"Hush!" At that moment the priest had raised his voice while denouncing a curse upon all heretics; and his keen expressive eye fell, perhaps unconsciously, on Ronald, whose cheek reddened with momentary anger. Evan’s reply, and his native Scottish accent, caused Ronald to indulge in the same train of ideas. He acknowledged in his own heart, that notwithstanding the gorgeous display before him, he would prefer the humble and earnest, the simple and unassuming service in the old village kirk at home,—the quiet sermon of the white-haired minister, and the slowly sung psalm, raised with all the true fervour, the holy and sober feeling which animate a Scottish congregation, and recall the soul-stirring emotions which inspired those who bled at Bothwell, at Pentland, and Drumclog. He thought of Alice, too; and eagerly did he long for the arrival of her brother Louis, that the cause of her heartless desertion might be explained. The cry of "_Viva la Religion y España! Muera Buonaparte!_" from the preacher, echoed by the deep tone of a thousand Spanish tongues, awoke him from his reverie, and he took prisoner within his own the white hand of Catalina, who was playing with the silk tassels of his sash, unconscious of what she was doing. "Senor," said she blushing, and withdrawing it, "you seem very melancholy." "I have, indeed, much reason to be so. How can I appear otherwise, when the hours we shall spend together are so few?" But she may forget me as soon as Alice has done, thought he, and his heart swelled at the idea. The donna made no immediate reply, and Ronald was surprised to perceive her colour change from white to the deepest crimson, and then become deadly pale again, while her dark eyes flashed with peculiar brilliancy and light. "Senor, the original of this is probably the cause of your sadness," she said, in a tremulous voice, while she held up her rival’s miniature, which had fallen from the lapelle of Ronald’s uniform, and hung at the full extent of the chain. "She is very beautiful. If this is her miniature, she must be a queen among women; and you love her very much, doubtless," she added in a cold and sorrowful tone which sunk deeply into the heart of Ronald as he hastily concealed the object of her emotion. "May I ask who she is, senor?" "A very dear friend, or rather one who was such." "She is dead, then,—or perhaps it is a portrait of a sister." "I never had one," replied the young man colouring with confusion, while he taxed his imagination to find a reply in vain. Happily for him he was relieved from his dilemma by an exclamation from Donna Inesella, who had hitherto sat silent, and had, or affected to have, been gazing intently at the preacher. "Holy Virgin!" she earnestly whispered. "See, Catalina, yonder is my brother the condé, leaning against the third column from Pizarro’s monument." "Here at church—the Condé de Truxillo here?" replied her cousin, becoming pale and agitated.