“Alas!” said the other, “I deserve no thanks; I deserve not the good opinion you express.  In me you behold a victim of Don Ambrosio’s arts.  In early years he seduced me from the cottage of my parents:  look! at the foot of yonder blue mountain, in the distance, lies my native village:  but it is no longer a home for me.  From thence he lured me, when I was too young for reflection; he educated me, taught me various accomplishments, made me sensible to love, to splendour, to refinement; then, having grown weary of me, he neglected me, and cast me upon the world.  Happily the accomplishments he taught me have kept me from utter want; and the love with which he inspired me has kept me from farther degradation.  Yes!  I confess my weakness; all his perfidy and wrongs cannot efface him from my heart.  I have been brought up to love him; I have no other idol:  I know him to be base, yet I cannot help adoring him.  I am content to mingle among the hireling throng that administer to his amusements, that I may still hover about him, and linger in those halls where I once reigned mistress.  What merit, then, have I in assisting your escape?  I scarce know whether I am acting from sympathy and a desire to rescue another victim from his power; or jealousy, and an eagerness to remove too powerful a rival!”

While she was yet speaking, the sun rose in all its splendour; first lighting up the mountain summits, then stealing down height by height, until its rays gilded the domes and towers of Granada, which they could partially see from between the trees, below them.  Just then the heavy tones of a bell came sounding from a distance, echoing, in sullen clang, along the mountain.  Inez turned pale at the sound.  She knew it to be the great bell of the cathedral, rung at sunrise on the day of the auto da fe, to give note of funeral preparation.  Every stroke beat upon her heart, and inflicted an absolute, corporeal pang.  She started up wildly.  “Let us begone!” cried she; “there is not a moment for delay!”

“Stop!” exclaimed the other; “yonder are horsemen coming over the brow of that distant height; if I mistake not, Don Ambrosio is at their head.—­Alas! ’tis he! we are lost.  Hold!” continued she; “give me your scarf and veil; wrap yourself in this mantilla.  I will fly up yon footpath that leads to the heights.  I will let the veil flutter as I ascend; perhaps they may mistake me for you, and they must dismount to follow me.  Do you hasten forward:  you will soon reach the main road.  You have jewels on your fingers:  bribe the first muleteer you meet, to assist you on your way.”

All this was said with hurried and breathless rapidity.  The exchange of garments was made in an instant.  The girl darted up the mountain-path, her white veil fluttering among the dark shrubbery, while Inez, inspired with new strength, or rather new terror, flew to the road, and trusted to Providence to guide her tottering steps to Granada.