The physician examined the wounded place, and assured Florence there was no fracture.

“I am afraid some blood-vessel is ruptured?” said she, anxiously.

“It is only a small one, I hope, but cannot tell certainly for several days.  He must be perfectly quiet; the least excitement might prove fatal, by causing a fresh hemorrhage.”

Nearly a week passed, and one evening Mary followed the physician as he left the house:  he heard her step, and turned.  His usually laughing countenance was grave and anxious; but he strove to seem cheerful.

“Doctor, I wish to know what you think of my uncle’s case; we are afraid it is more serious than you at first pronounced it?”

“It is better that you should know the worst.  I am pained to grieve you, but candor compels me to say, that a fatal injury has been inflicted.  I hoped for the best, but an examination this evening confirmed my fears.”

Mary sobbed bitterly and long.  Dr. Bryant sought not to comfort her by exciting false hopes, but paced up and down the gravel-walk beside her.

“You do not fear a rapid termination of the disorder?” she said at last, in a low, trembling tone.

“He may linger some days, but I do not think it probable that he will.”

“Florry, Florry! what is to become of us?” cried the weeping girl, in a voice of agony.  “Oh, God! spare him to us!”

“Do you think your cousin comprehends her father’s danger?”

“She fears the worst, and requested me this evening to ask your opinion.  Oh, how can I tell her that he must die!”

“Do not crush all hope (though I have none); let her believe that he may recover.  She is not of a temperament to bear prolonged agony.  The shock will be less painful, rest assured.  Believe me, I deeply sympathize with you both.”  And pressing her hand, he withdrew.

CHAPTER VIII.

  “See! the dappled gray coursers of the morn
  Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs,
  And chase it through the sky!”

  Marston.

Inez left her father’s door as the last notes of the matin bell died away on the cool, clear morning air.  She held in her hand a silken scarf, which, according to the custom of her country, was thrown lightly across the head, and confined at the chin.

Beautiful she looked, with the feverish glow on her cheek, and her large Spanish eyes, restless and piercing, flashing out at times the thoughts of her inmost soul.  She threw the mantilla round her head, and turned toward the church.  The step was firm yet hasty.  She seemed endeavoring to escape from herself.

The streets were silent and the Plaza deserted, and naught seemed stirring save the swallows that twittered and circled round and round the belfry of the church.  There was something soothing in the deep stillness that reigned on that balmy morning, and Inez felt its influence.  She paused at the entrance of the gray old church, and stretched forth her arms to the rosy east.