“Father,” said I, in a low sepulchral tone, at the same time advancing noiselessly towards the grating.

“Holy St. Francis,” said the confessor, in a voice of terror, and making at the same time a retrograde movement from the grating, “’tis a man!”

“Father,” said I, in the same unearthly tone, “fear nothing, it is no man that addresses thee; well thou knowest that no fleshly form can gain entrance here; it is not a man, but a spirit, with whom thou art communing.”  As I spoke thus, I could hear the Friar rapidly commending himself to the protection of the Holy Mother of God, and of all the Saints; and I continued, “She whom thou camest to confess, is now beyond the reach of thy counsel:  her soul has gone to its heavy account, and her body lieth there;” said I, gliding aside, and knowing well, that although nothing could be seen from the cell through the grating, yet all within was visible from the other side.  “I am the ghost of the murdered Jose Andrades;” (the husband of Isabel) and at the same time that I made this announcement, I threw back a part of the hood that covered my face, and the dim light from the circular hole falling upon the upper part of the countenance, showed a visage which fasting and confinement had already made more like the face of a dead than of a living man, and which I had taken care to besmear with blood.

A new exclamation of horror, and still more rapid prayers, followed this revelation.

“Here,” continued I, again drawing the hood over my face, and approaching the grate—­from which I could hear the Friar retreating; “here will I remain, in dread communion with the body of my murderer, until it be taken hence; delay not to let this be done, else I will speak with thee nearer anon.”

The Friar being already as near to the ghost of a murdered man as he probably desired to be, and willing to prevent the execution of this threat of a nearer colloquy, swung the screen forward, which closed with a tremendous clank, and the rapid footsteps of the terrified confessor speedily died away.

“Ah, Dios!” said Isabel, “I had scarcely courage to go through my part:  when you spoke of my soul having gone to its account, I was on the point of rising, to convince myself that I was yet living.”

“Surely,” returned I, “you may find courage to personate a dead woman, when I have no hesitation in personating the ghost of a murdered man; the stratagem succeeds; you will have but once more to play your part; and I am much mistaken if we be not both outside of this tower before another day shall pass over our heads;” and animated by this hope, Isabel promised to obey my directions.