Inez drew back from him with scorn and disbelief.  “My father,” exclaimed she, “is too innocent and blameless to be convicted of crime; this is some base, some cruel artifice!” Don Ambrosio repeated his asseverations, and with them also his dishonourable proposals; but his eagerness overshot its mark:  her indignation and her incredulity were alike awakened by his base suggestions; and he retired from her presence, checked and awed by the sudden pride and dignity of her demeanour.

The unfortunate Inez now became a prey to the most harrowing anxieties.  Don Ambrosio saw that the mask had fallen from his face, and that the nature of his machinations was revealed.  He had gone too far to retrace his steps, and assume the affectation of tenderness and respect; indeed, he was mortified and incensed at her insensibility to his attractions, and now only sought to subdue her through her fears.  He daily represented to her the dangers that threatened her father, and that it was in his power alone to avert them.  Inez was still incredulous.  She was too ignorant of the nature of the inquisition, to know that even innocence was not always a protection from its cruelties; and she confided too surely in the virtue of her father, to believe that any accusation could prevail against him.

At length Don Ambrosio, to give an effectual blow to her confidence, brought her the proclamation of the approaching auto da fe, in which the prisoners were enumerated.  She glanced her eye over it, and beheld her father’s name, condemned to the stake for sorcery!

For a moment she stood transfixed with horror.  Don Ambrosio seized upon the transient calm.  “Think, now, beautiful Inez,” said he, with a tone of affected tenderness, “his life is still in your hands; one word from you, one kind word, and I can yet save him.”

“Monster! wretch!” cried she, coming to herself, and recoiling from him with insuperable abhorrence:  “’Tis you that are the cause of this—­’tis you that are his murderer!” Then, wringing her hands, she broke forth into exclamations of the most frantic agony.

The perfidious Ambrosio saw the torture of her soul, and anticipated from it a triumph.  He saw that she was in no mood, during her present paroxysm, to listen to his words; but he trusted that the horrors of lonely rumination would break down her spirit, and subdue her to his will.  In this, however, he was disappointed.  Many were the vicissitudes of mind of the wretched Inez; at one time, she would embrace his knees, with piercing supplications; at another, she would shrink with nervous horror at his very approach; but any intimation of his passion only excited the same emotion of loathing and detestation.

At length the fatal day drew nigh.  “To-morrow,” said Don Ambrosio, as he left her one evening, “to-morrow is the auto da fe.  To-morrow you will hear the sound of the bell that tolls your father to his death.  You will almost see the smoke that rises from the funeral pile.  I leave you to yourself.  It is yet in my power to save him.  Think whether you can stand to-morrow’s horrors without shrinking!  Think whether you can endure the after-reflection, that you were the cause of his death, and that merely through a perversity in refusing proffered happiness.”