The poor alchymist had made his peace with Heaven, and, by a hard struggle, had closed his heart upon the world, when the voice of his child called him once more back to worldly thought and agony.  He turned towards the well-known voice; his knees smote together; he endeavoured to stretch forth his pinioned arms, and felt himself clasped in the embraces of his child.  The emotions of both were too agonizing for utterance.  Convulsive sobs and broken exclamations, and embraces more of anguish than tenderness, were all that passed between them.  The procession was interrupted for a moment.  The astonished monks and familiars were filled with involuntary respect, at the agony of natural affection.  Ejaculations of pity broke from the crowd, touched by the filial piety, the extraordinary and hopeless anguish, of so young and beautiful a being.

Every attempt to soothe her, and prevail on her to retire, was unheeded; at length they endeavoured to separate her from her father by force.  The movement roused her from her temporary abandonment.  With a sudden paroxysm of fury, she snatched a sword from one of the familiars.  Her late pale countenance was flushed with rage, and fire flashed from her once soft and languishing eyes.  The guards shrunk back with awe.  There was something in this filial frenzy, this feminine tenderness wrought up to desperation, that touched even their hardened hearts.  They endeavoured to pacify her, but in vain.  Her eye was eager and quick, as the she-wolf’s guarding her young.  With one arm she pressed her father to her bosom, with the other she menaced every one that approached.

The patience of the guards was soon exhausted.  They had held back in awe, but not in fear.  With all her desperation the weapon was soon wrested from her feeble hand, and she was borne shrieking and struggling among the crowd.  The rabble murmured compassion; but such was the dread inspired by the inquisition, that no one attempted to interfere.

The procession again resumed its march.  Inez was ineffectually struggling to release herself from the hands of the familiars that detained her, when suddenly she saw Don Ambrosio before her.  “Wretched girl!” exclaimed he with fury, “why have you fled from your friends?  Deliver her,” said he to the familiars, “to my domestics; she is under my protection.”

His creatures advanced to seize her.  “Oh, no! oh, no!” cried she, with new terrors, and clinging to the familiars, “I have fled from no friends.  He is not my protector!  He is the murderer of my father!”

The familiars were perplexed; the crowd pressed on, with eager curiosity.  “Stand off!” cried the fiery Ambrosio, dashing the throng from around him.  Then turning to the familiars, with sudden moderation, “My friends,” said he, “deliver this poor girl to me.  Her distress has turned her brain; she has escaped from her friends and protectors this morning; but a little quiet and kind treatment will restore her to tranquillity.”