“I wonder,” said he to himself, somewhat curiously, “why Ruez does not come to-day? it is his hour-ay, must be even past the time, and the boy loves me too well to neglect me now, when I am so near my end.  Hark! is that his step?  No; and yet it must be; it is too light for the guard or turnkey.  O yes, that is my door, certainly, and here he is, sure enough.  I knew he would come.”

As the prisoner said this, the door slowly opened on its rusty and creaking hinges, and the turnkey immediately closed it after the new comer, who was somewhat closely wrapped in the profuse folds of a long Spanish cloak.

Well, Ruez,” said Captain Bezan, quite leisurely, and without turning his head towards the door, “I had begun to fear that you would not come to-day.  You know you are the only being I see, except the turnkey, and I’m quite sensitive about your visits, my dear boy.  However, you are here, at last; sit down.”

“Captain Bezan, it appears to me that you do not welcome me very cordially,” said Isabella Gonzales, in reply, and a little archly.

“Lady!” said the prisoner, springing to his feet as though he had been struck by an electric shock, “Senorita Isabella Gonzales, is it possible that you have remembered me at such a time-me, who am so soon to die?”

Isabella Gonzales had now thrown back the ample folds of the cloak she wore, and lifting her brother’s cap from her head, her beautiful hair fell into its accustomed place, and with a slight blush tinging either cheek, she stood before the young soldier in his cell, an object of ineffable interest and beauty.

“Heaven bless you, lady,” said the prisoner, kneeling at her feet.

“Nay.  I pray you, sir, Captain Bezan, do not kneel at such a time.”

“Ah! lady, how can I thank you in feeble words for this sweet ray of sunshine that you have cast athwart my dark and dreary path?  I no longer remember that I am to die-that my former comrades are to pierce my heart with bullets.  I cannot remember my fate, lady, since you have rendered me so happy.  You have shown me that I did not mistake the throne at which I have secretly worshipped-that, all good and pure as you are, you would not forget Lorenzo Bezan, the poor, the lonely soldier who had dared to tell you how dearly he loved you.”

As he spoke, Isabella Gonzales seemed for one moment to forget herself in the realizations of the scene.  She listened to his thrice eloquent words with eyes bent upon the ground at first, and then gazing tenderly upon him, and now that he had ceased to speak, they sought once more the floor of the room in silence.  He could not but construe these delicate demonstrations in his favor, and drawing close to her side, he pressed her hand tenderly to his lips.  The touch seemed to act like magic, and aroused her to present consciousness, while she started as if in amazement.  All the pride of her disposition was instantly aroused; she