Lorenzo Bezan, almost crazed with the contending emotions that beset him, knew not what to say-what to do; he obeyed her wish, and left the room, as did also the rest, leaving Isabella and the Countess Moranza alone together.  General Bezan walked the adjoining room like one who had lost all self-control-now pressing his forehead with both hands, as if to keep back the press of thoughts, and now, almost groaning aloud at the struggling of his feelings within his throbbing breast.  The light broke in upon him; while he had been so happy, so inconsiderate at Madrid, in the society of the beautiful and intelligent woman; while he had respected and loved her like a brother, he had unwittingly been planting thorns in her bosom!  He saw it all now.  He even recalled the hour when he told her of his love for Isabella Gonzales-and remembered, too, the sudden illness that she evinced.  “Alas! how blind I have been, how thoughtless of all else but myself, and my own disappointments and heart-secrets.  Next to Isabella, I could have loved that pure and gentle being.  I did feel drawn to her side by unspeakable tenderness and gratitude for the consolation she seemed ever so delicately to impart; but for this right hand I would not have deceived her, the virgin bear me witness.”

The moments seemed hours to him, while he waited thus in such a state of suspense as his frame of mind might be supposed to indicate.  The surgeon entered to take his leave.

“How is she, sir?” asked Lorenzo Bezan, hastily.

“I have not seen her since we left her with Don Gonzales’s daughter.  She desired to be left alone with her, you remember, and it is best to do as she wishes.  My skill can do her no good.  She cannot live but a very few hours, and I may as well retire.”

“There is, then, no hope for her, no possibility of recovery?”

“None!”

Throwing himself into a chair, Lorenzo Bezan seemed perfectly overcome with grief.  He did not weep, no tears came to his relief; but it was the fearful struggle of the soul, that sometimes racks the stout frame and manly heart.  The soldier who had passed so many hours on the battle-field-who had breathed the breath of scores of dying men, of wounded comrades, and bleeding foes, was a child now.  He clasped his hands and remained in silence, like one wrapped in prayer.

He had not remained thus but a short time, when a slave summoned him to the bedside of the dying countess.  He found her once more alone.  Isabella had retired to her own apartment.

“General,” said the sufferer, holding out her hand, which he pressed tenderly to his lips!

“Forgive me, Countess Moranza, pray forgive me?”

“I have nothing to forgive, and for my sake charge yourself with no blame for me.  It is my dying request, for I can stay but a little longer.  I have one other to make.  You will grant it?”

“Anything that mortal can do I will do for thee.”