On hearing the answer which her father had given to Don Rafael, the carnation upon her lips became of a deeper hue. She was biting them to restrain a smile. Assuming an air of gravity, however, which had the effect of rendering her lover still more anxious, she at length made reply-- "Don Rafael!" said she, "you have appealed to my candour, and I shall speak frankly to you. But swear to me that you will not regard my sincerity as a crime." "I swear it, Gertrudis! Speak without fear, though your words should crush a heart that is entirely your own." "Only on one condition can I speak freely." "Name it! it shall be observed." "It is, that--while I am making my confession to you, you will keep your eyes fixed upon the tops of those pomegranate trees. Without doing that you might risk not hearing certain things--in short, an avowal--such as you might wish." "I shall try to obey you," answered Don Rafael, turning his gaze towards the tops of the trees, as if about to study the domestic habits of the parroquets, that still continued their evolutions among the branches. In a timid and trembling voice, Gertrudis commenced-- "One day," said she, "not very long ago--a young girl made a vow to the Virgin, to save the man she loved from fearful danger that threatened him. Don't you think, Don Rafael, that that man was dearly loved?" "That depends upon the nature of the vow," replied the officer. "You shall hear it. The young girl promised to the Virgin, that if her lover should escape from the danger, she would cause him to cut the hair--Oh! if you look at me I cannot go on--she would cause him to cut the hair from her head with his own hands--the long tresses which she herself highly valued, and which he had so passionately admired. In your opinion, was that man beloved?" "Oh! who would not be proud to be so loved?" cried Don Rafael, casting a glance at his questioner that moved her to the depths of her soul. "I have not yet finished," said she. "Turn your eyes upon the trees, or perhaps you may not hear the end of my tale, and that might vex you. When this young girl, who had not hesitated to sacrifice her hair--the object of her constant care--the long silken tresses that encircled her head like the diadem of a queen, and which, perhaps, were, in her lover's eyes, her greatest embellishment--when this poor girl will have cut--had cut them off, I should say--do you believe that her lover--you may look at me now, Don Rafael--I give you permission--do you believe that he would still love her as before?" Don Rafael faced round suddenly at the question; not that he yet comprehended its import; but the tone of melancholy in which Gertrudis was speaking had profoundly moved him. A tender tear--a tear of envy for the lot of this unknown, so passionately loved--glistened in his eye, as he made reply--