At length her attention was caught by the voice of one of the singers, that brought with it some indefinite recollections.  She raised her head, and cast an anxious look at the performers, who, as usual, were at the lower end of the saloon.

One of them advanced a little before the others.  It was a female, dressed in a fanciful, pastoral garb, suited to the character she was sustaining; but her countenance was not to be mistaken.  It was the same ballad-singer that had twice crossed her path, and given her mysterious intimations of the lurking mischief that surrounded her.  When the rest of the performances were concluded, she seized a tambourine, and, tossing it aloft, danced alone to the melody of her own voice.  In the course of her dancing, she approached to where Inez reclined:  and as she struck the tambourine, contrived dexterously to throw a folded paper on the couch.  Inez seized it with avidity, and concealed it in her bosom.  The singing and dancing were at an end; the motley crew retired; and Inez, left alone, hastened with anxiety to unfold the paper thus mysteriously conveyed.  It was written in an agitated, and almost illegible handwriting:  “Be on your guard! you are surrounded by treachery.  Trust not to the forbearance of Don Ambrosio; you are marked out for his prey.  An humble victim to his perfidy gives you this warning; she is encompassed by too many dangers to be more explicit.—­Your father is in the dungeons of the inquisition!”

The brain of Inez reeled, as she read this dreadful scroll.  She was less filled with alarm at her own danger, than horror at her father’s situation.  The moment Don Ambrosio appeared, she rushed and threw herself at his feet, imploring him to save her father.  Don Ambrosio stared with astonishment; but immediately regaining his self-possession, endeavoured to soothe her by his blandishments, and by assurances that her father was in safety.  She was not to be pacified; her fears were too much aroused to be trifled with.  She declared her knowledge of her father’s being a prisoner of the inquisition, and reiterated her frantic supplications that he would save him.

Don Ambrosio paused for a moment in perplexity, but was too adroit to be easily confounded.  “That your father is a prisoner,” replied he, “I have long known.  I have concealed it from you, to save you from fruitless anxiety.  You now know the real reason of the restraint I have put upon your liberty:  I have been protecting instead of detaining you.  Every exertion has been made in your father’s favour; but I regret to say, the proofs of the offences of which he stands charged have been too strong to be controverted.  Still,” added he, “I have it in my power to save him; I have influence, I have means at my beck; it may involve me, it is true, in difficulties, perhaps in disgrace; but what would I not do, in the hope of being rewarded by your favour?  Speak, beautiful Inez,” said he, his eyes kindling with sudden eagerness; “it is with you to say the word that seals your father’s fate.  One kind word—­say but you will be mine, and you will behold me at your feet, your father at liberty and in affluence, and we shall all be happy!”