The song did not awake Isabella, though just beneath her window.  She heard it, nevertheless, and in the half-waking, half-dreaming state in which she was, perhaps enjoyed it even with keener sense than she would have done if quite aroused.  She dreamed of love, and of Lorenzo Bezan; she thought all was forgotten-all forgiven, and that he was her accepted lover.  But this was in her sleep-awake, she would not have felt prepared to say yet, even to herself, whether she really loved him, or would listen to his address; awake, there was still a lingering pride in her bosom, too strong for easy removal.  But sweet was the pure and beautiful girl’s sleep-sweet was the smile that played about her delicate mouth-and lovely beyond the painter’s power, the whole expression of soft delight that dwelt in her incomparably handsome features.

The song ceased, but the sleeper dreamed on in delightful quietude.

Not so without; there was a scene enacting there that would chill the heart of woman, and call into action all the sterner powers of the other sex.

Some strange chance had drawn General Harero from his quarters, also, at this hour, and the sound of the guitar had attracted him to the Plato just as Lorenzo Bezan had completed his song.  Hearing approaching footsteps, and not caring to be discovered, the serenader slung his guitar by its silken cord behind his back, and wrapping his cloak about him, prepared to leave the spot; but hardly had he reached the top of the broad stairs that lead towards the Calle de Mercaderes (street of the merchants), when he stood face to face with his bitter enemy, General Harero!

“General Harero!”

“Lorenzo Bezan!”

Said each, calling the other’s name, in the first moment of surprise.

“So you still propose to continue your persecutions towards this lady?” said General Harero, sarcastically.

“Persecutions?”

“That was my word; what other term can express unwelcome visits?”

“It were better, General Harero, that you should remember the change which has taken place in our relative positions, of late, and not provoke me too far.”

“I spit upon and defy your authority.”

“Then, sir, it shall be exercised on the morrow for your especial benefit.”

“Not by you, though,” said the enraged rival, drawing his sword suddenly, and thrusting its point towards the heart of Lorenzo Bezan.

But the young soldier had been too often engaged in hand to hand conflicts to lose his presence of mind, and with his uplifted arm shrouded in his cloak, he parried the blow, with only a slight flesh wound upon his left wrist.  But General Harero had drawn blood, and that was enough; the next moment their swords were crossed, and a few passes were only necessary to enable Lorenzo Bezan to revenge himself by a severe wound in his rival’s left breast.  Maddened by the pain of his wound, and reckless by his anger,