A moan escaped the lips of Ronald, and he gnashed his teeth with absolute fury, while big drops, glittering in the moonlight, stood upon his pale forehead, and his throat became so swollen that he was almost choked. He snatched up his sword, and with difficulty restrained the inclination he felt to rush deeper into the wood, in search of Cifuentes. But how could he leave Catalina, the torn and disordered condition of whose garments, together with the wounds and bruises on her delicate hands and arms, bore evidence that a desperate struggle had taken place before the first outrage was accomplished. Stuart reeled as if a ball had passed through his brain, and the forest-trees seemed to rock around him as if shaken by an earthquake. The fierce emotion passed away, and was succeeded by a horrible calmness,—a feeling of settled and morbid desperation. He passed his hand once or twice over his brow, as if to clear his thoughts and arrange them before he again knelt beside Catalina, who had closed her eyes and lay still, as if in a deep slumber. He thought that the spirit had passed from her; but the faint beating of her heart, as he laid his cheek on her soft breast, convinced him that she yet lived. Raising her from the ground, he endeavoured to make his way through the wood to where he had left the aged priest, to the end that some means might be procured to save her life, if it was yet possible to do so. But he had not borne her a dozen yards, when the branch of a tree tore off the sash with which he had hastily bound up the wound, and the blood gushed forth with greater violence than before. "Mother Mary, be gracious unto me! and forgive me if I think of aught else than heaven in this awful moment!" murmured Catalina in a soft and plaintive voice. "Ah, the pangs, the torments I endure! Oh, _mi querida_, carry me no further; ’tis useless,—I am dying. Alas! dishonoured as I am, I would not wish to live. Lay me down here, where the grass is soft and green. Ronald, here ends our love and my hope together!" In Stuart’s face there was an expression which pen can never describe, as he laid her down gently on the turf, and sustaining her head upon his arm, bent over her in silent sorrow and misery. "Are you near me still, _mi querida_?" she murmured tremulously. "Catalina, I am yet with you,—my arm is around you." "Alas! the light has left my eyes: death is darkening my vision." "Mercy of Heaven! it cannot be thus,—they are bright as ever; but a cloud has overshadowed the moon." "Ronald, it is the hand of death: I see you no longer. Are you near me?" "My hands are pressing yours,—alas! they are very cold and clammy." "I feel them not: the numbness of my limbs will soon extend to my breast. When I am gone, let twelve masses he said for my soul. Alas, you will think them of no use! But promise me this, that I may die more easily and peacefully." "I do, Catalina, I do."