It was a fortunate circumstance for Inez, apart from any immediate inconvenience it might have occasioned her, that Gonzalez did not turn round from the casement at the moment he tore back the curtain; for if he had done so, he could hardly have failed to observe her utter bewilderment and amaze. But as the abortive issue of his proceedings had caused some surprise to himself, he hesitated before he turned round; and Inez had time to subdue, in a great degree, every trace of the emotion which had so deeply stirred her.

There was a quiet smile on her face when she again met the gaze of her guardian. This, however, failed to convince Gonzalez that his suspicions of her incontinence had been without ground, though he thought it better, in the absence of any certain evidence, to conceal those suspicions, and defer all measures of severity till he should discover something that would excuse them. Nevertheless, his fury was not calmed. He hesitated to resume his attack on Inez, but it was because, during the many years she had been under his guardianship, he had become too sensible of her unbending spirit, and haughty and resolute temper, under provocations less serious than that which he had furnished on this occasion, to suppose that he would come off the victor; and not from any feelings of delicacy or forbearance. But the old governante, whom he could discharge from his service at his pleasure, did not come under these protective relations, and, therefore, he felt no hesitation in discharging his fury at her.

“So, thou old beldame!” he exclaimed, “wouldst thou bring thy pestilent gallants into our very chambers? ’Tis well, indeed, thou canst find them no place of resort but my house.”

“Don Gonzalez, this is past all bearing,” cried Inez, stepping in to her confidant’s rescue. “I will put up with thy cruel suspicions and arbitrary rule no longer. I will petition the King, Sir, to have thy guardianship cancelled; and have my inheritance, which thou engrossest solely to thyself, turned over to my own hands. Come, good Amina,” she added to her governante, “let us retire.”

“Aha! would you go plot again?” cried Gonzalez. “No, no! we’ll no more on’t to-night. Get thee to thy chamber alone for once; and, harkye, thou old hag!” he added to the duenna, “get thee to thine, or I will have thee made do penance in the public streets. Petition the King, eh?”

“Remember, thou hast been warned!” said Inez.

Uttering these words, she turned abruptly to the door, and passed to the contiguous gallery. Here she was joined by her governante; but before they could interchange any communication, Gonzalez followed them, and they were obliged to separate. A female servant, who was in waiting in the hall below, furnished them each with a light, and, with this in their hands, they passed in silence to their respective chambers.

But though Inez repaired to her chamber, she did not retire to rest. Indeed, to have sought repose in the state of mind she was in, agitated with contending influences, would have been the extreme of folly. Yet it was not any remembrance of the conduct of her guardian that engaged her attention. The anger and indignation arising from that source, though deep and bitter, was soon lost in her anxiety concerning the disappearance of her lover. She started a whole host of conjectures, as to the manner in which he had effected his escape, but none of them could reduce, in any material degree, her excruciating doubts of his safety. Whatever had been the mode of his egress from the casement, she fancied that he could not descend from so great a height, by his own unaided efforts, and under the disadvantage arising from the darkness of the night, without incurring injury. A thrill of anguish shot through her frame, as, pursuing this train of reflection, she thought that he might now be lying disabled on the damp ground, writhing under the torture of a broken limb. Yet, how could she afford him any succour? how could she even ascertain, without the cognizance and sufferance of her guardian, that he needed succour?

She pondered on the subject till she grew distracted. At last, after she had thought of every possible mode of proceeding, she resolved to wait till the household should have retired, and then search for her lover in the garden.

She did not determine on this step without some hesitation. In making an assignation with a stranger, without so much as knowing his name, or ever interchanging a word with him, she may seem to have manifested little delicacy, and committed excessive indiscretion; but, before passing judgment on her conduct, it must be borne in mind, in reference to her being the first mover of the assignation, that this was in accordance with the custom of her country, and was no way singular or unusual. She invited Hildebrand to meet her, if his sentiments were such as, on the two occasions she had seen him, he had endeavoured to reveal to her by his looks; and though this might not be a legitimate favour, it was a gallantry that was every day practised, and the bachelors of Cadiz hardly ever ventured to address a young lady, especially when she was remarkable for her beauty, till they received some such licence.

Though she was precipitate, ardent, and romantic, and placed scarcely any bridle on her headlong passions, Inez had never entertained a gallant before. It was the noble form, and fine, manly countenance of Hildebrand, which the contrast they presented to the persons of her countrymen rendered more than usually prepossessing, that wakened a sense of love in her breast for the first time. Yet it was not love, but rather a feeling of satisfaction, if a term so cold may be used, that her charms could win from such a cavalier the homage of his looks. She felt gratified by his admiration; his appearance struck her with a responsive impression; and it was this influence, more than any other, that induced her to invite him to an assignation.

Precipitation in an affair of the heart is often attended with peril and mischief. Inez was the creature of impulse, and, in her correspondence with Hildebrand, all had been hurry and action. She had not paused once. Moreover, from the moment that she had opened a direct communication with him, the novelty and excitement of every individual circumstance, by associating him constantly with her thoughts, had combined to invest him with a new interest. The expectations raised by his approach, the feelings awakened by his first address, by their progress to her chamber, by the intrusion of her guardian, and by his mysterious disappearance, with the tormenting doubts which she entertained concerning his safety, knit him to her heart, and opened to his hand its most precious sympathies, and all its priceless affections.

The heart may seem too lightly won that surrenders without a struggle. Even the love that has sprung from time, by slow and gradual degrees, and under the propitious influence of intimate fellowship, often retains some taint of selfishness, and acknowledges a fixed and distinct limit. But it is those warm natures which, once aroused, abandon to their love their every thought, that are soonest and most easily vanquished. They might endure the vicissitudes of a slow and gradual attachment with perfect equanimity; but the magic force of love’s first touch, taking them off their guard, awakens in their bosoms their deepest springs of feeling, and hurries them over every restraint, and past every opposing scruple, into all the excess of unbridled passion.

In the impetuosity of her nature, Inez had unlocked to her unknown lover the inmost recesses of her heart. He was the light and key to all her thoughts. What would have been to his disadvantage with some, by enforcing caution, and keeping before them the necessity of acting with prudence, pleaded to her in his favour; and her very ignorance of his name and station made her look upon him with a more ardent and passionate interest.

At length, the silence that prevailed, and the lateness of the hour, which was now past midnight, led her to suppose that the household must all have retired, and she proceeded to put in execution her purpose of visiting the garden. Softly opening her chamber-door, she looked out into the gallery, and found that the lights in the hall below had been extinguished. Nevertheless, she was afraid to bring her own light forth, and she set on her way in the dark.

Wrapping her mantilla tightly round her, she pressed close to the wall, and proceeded, with a light but quick step, to descend to the hall. She soon reached the bottom of the stairs, and, with a beating heart, groped her way to the rearward door. It was very dark, but, from long familiarity with the building, both by night and day, she knew where to tread, and she made out the door without difficulty. She raised her hand to draw back the bolts; but, to her surprise, she found that, either from neglect or accident, these were not secured, and the door had been left unfastened.

It was not without some qualms of fear that Inez looked out on the pitchy night. The rain was still falling, though not with any force, and the light showers drew from the foliage of the trees, as they fell upon it, a distinct vibration, that gave to the prevailing darkness an unearthly terror. But her apprehensions of peril from fellow-mortals, which her venturing out alone at so late an hour might well inspire, repressed any superstitious fears in the bosom of Inez, though they rendered her equally timid and irresolute. After a brief pause, however, her decision returned, and, drawing the door close after her, she passed out.

Without the door, there was a stone landing, guarded on either side by an iron rail, which led down a flight of steps to the garden. Above the landing, on a level with the top of the door, was a sort of veranda, open at the sides, which ran the whole length of the rails. Inez now perceived, what she had not thought of before, that this veranda was immediately beneath the casement from which her lover had made his egress, and she doubted not that he had easily lit upon it from the casement-sill, and thence leaped to the ground. A thrill of joy shot through her frame, as, measuring the height of the veranda with her eye, she perceived that he could do this without incurring any hurt; and the prompt manner in which he had seized such a means of escape, when the danger must have been yet remote, and the expediency of retreat could hardly have occurred to him, led her to look upon his image with more confirmed admiration.

Nevertheless, he could not have got out of the garden; for, on his entry with her duenna, the latter had locked the gate which, as was shown heretofore, opened into the street, and there was no other outlet but through the house. She determined, therefore, pursuant to her original intention, to seek him in the garden, and lend him her aid to get clear off.

She passed on for some little time, without observing anything to cause her the least alarm. At length, turning a sweep in the walk, where the area was less confined, her eye took in a more extended range, and she was able to distinguish objects more clearly. Here, as she gazed earnestly round, her eye fell on a large orange-tree, a few paces in her front; and she distinctly discerned two men, muffled in long cloaks, standing against its trunk. She turned to flee directly, but, in the hurry of her retreat, she forgot how necessary it was to proceed with caution, and the tread of her feet, reverberated by the wet ground, made the two men sensible of her vicinity. One of them called to her, in a voice which she recognised as her guardian’s, to come to a halt, and, at the same time, prepared to give her chase. But Inez fled at her last speed. Turning the sweep already noticed, she came abreast of a walk which, breaking through a small shrubbery, led to the further end of the garden; and this suggested itself to her as a safe route for retreat. But the steps of her pursuers were close in her wake, and the difficulty of escape, if it depended solely on her speed, became every moment more and more apparent. Moreover, her breath was failing her, and her energies were, what with fear, and what with her exertions, nearly exhausted. In this dilemma, she came to a stand, intending to deliver herself up. As the steps of her pursuers drew nearer, however, her desire to escape revived, and, with something like renewed hope, she stepped out of the walk, and hid herself among the contiguous shrubs.

Her pursuers soon came abreast of her hiding-place. To her great terror, however, they did not pass on, but halted right before her. She kept her eyes continually upon them, every minute expecting to see them move away; but minute after minute expired, in slow and melancholy succession, and they were still stationary. Her stooping position, though relieved of some of its weariness by the support of her hands, was growing painful; but she was afraid to move—she hardly ventured to breathe. The excitement was becoming intolerable, when, after an interval of about half an hour, one of the cavaliers spoke.

“Dost think it was he?” he asked of his companion.

“No,” answered the other. “I fear me he hath got off.”

“Art thou sure he was ever here?” asked the first speaker.

“Did I not tell thee I dogged him, and the old duenna, Amina, almost to the very gate?” replied the other.

“Thou canst hardly be mistaken, then,” said the first speaker. “If he have escaped, ’tis through thy pestilent knave of a groom, whom we sent, with a charge to use his utmost despatch, for the guard of alguazils.”

The other cavalier made some reply, but it was in so low a tone, and the rain at the moment made so much noise, that his words reached the ear of his comrade only, and afforded no trace of their purport to the anxious Inez. Whatever their purport might be, however, they evidently directed them to some other quarter; for they moved away without more ado.

Inez now breathed more freely. It was a great relief to her to stand upright; but her tender limbs, unused to any hardship, and cramped by her recent stooping, suffered severely from the wet and cold. She was still afraid to move out of the shrubbery; for she doubted not, from what she had overheard, that the two cavaliers continued on the watch, though they had removed from her immediate vicinity. Their brief dialogue also apprised her, in terms too broad and distinct to be misunderstood, that they were aware of her having received a visit from a gallant; and this circumstance tended to increase her uneasiness, and make her more and more melancholy. But she was somewhat assured by the reflection, arising out of this train of thought, after she had started all manner of conjectures, that Hildebrand had got clear away; for if he had effected his descent from the casement without incurring any hurt, she thought it highly improbable that he would pause or linger in his retreat and suffer the low wall of the garden, the only remaining obstacle, to prevent his making off. The matter, however, was involved in uncertainty; and her conjectures, and hopes, and apprehensions, rising one upon another, in quick and unbroken succession, harassed her excessively, and subjected her mind to the most exquisite pangs of suspense.

She remained standing in the shrubbery for nearly half an hour. Then, finding all quiet, she stepped over the parterre, and ventured out on the walk. No one was in sight, and she resolved, though not without hesitation, and many lingering fears respecting the safety of Hildebrand, to endeavour to return unperceived to the house.

She set forward with a trembling heart, but she grew more confident as she progressed, and discovered nothing around, so far as she could distinguish, to indicate the presence of a single living creature. Her heart quite bounded as she arrived in front of the house, and she mounted the flight of steps at the door, under the shelter of the veranda, with a sense of recovered buoyancy. Passing over the landing, she paused in front of the door, and clutched eagerly at the latch:—the door was fastened within.

Her head reeled again as she made this discovery; and yet, on a moment’s reflection, she could hardly bring herself to believe that the door was really fastened, and she fixed her hand on the latch once more. But the door resisted her efforts, and she tried it over and over again, sometimes with all her force, and at others gently, but still with the utmost earnestness, with the like disheartening result.

She was very cold, and wet withal, and her tender and delicate frame, from the severe manner in which it had been tried, was already fast sinking from exhaustion. How could she bear up till the morrow? What resource was left her, in her utter helplessness and misery, against the terrors and hardship of a night in the open air?

In vain she pondered on her situation. The more she thought of it, in a fruitless pursuit of some one hopeful reflection, the greater became her misery, and the more confirmed her despair. Nor were the great personal apprehensions that she entertained, and which every moment augmented, the most afflictive element of her distress; for the solitude around now raised within her a host of ideal and superstitious terrors, far more grievous and depressing. For some minutes she hardly ventured to raise her eyes from the ground. The sputtering of the rain on the veranda, a few feet above her head, made her thrill with fear; if she sought to relieve her wearied limbs by changing her position, either by supporting her arm on the hand-rail, or by leaning against the door, the rustling of her drapery, whenever she moved, turned her heart cold, and conjured up before her the most morbid and distracting fancies.

She might have remained in this position till the morning, but, happening to glance on one side, her eye fell on the dim outlines of an outhouse, stretching away from the main building, only a few yards from where she stood. This she knew to be the kitchen, and, though she had no doubt of the kitchen being duly secured, she recollected that there was a wood-house adjoining, in a line with the kitchen, the door of which was fastened only with a staple, and would, therefore, afford her ready access. Poor as such a refuge would be, it would, in her present destitution, still be a refuge; and it no sooner presented itself to view than she hastened to embrace it.

Quickly descending the flight of steps, she kept close against the side of the house, in order to screen herself in its shadow, and pushed forward to the kitchen. On arriving before this building, she paused a moment, and looked anxiously round. But she could discern no trace of any overlooker, and, drawing a deep breath, she again pressed against the wall, and resumed her progress to the wood-house. As she passed along, however, keeping close to the wall, she came against the kitchen-door; and, yielding to her involuntary pressure, which its situation in an indenture rendered more forcible, the door flew open.

A sensation of pleasure rose in her bosom at this unexpected prospect of a comfortable retreat. Before the feeling had well sprung up, however, it was overtaken by an opposite one; for as she was about to avail herself of the passage afforded by the open door, something like the rustling of drapery saluted her ear, and she shrank back in dismay. Looking quickly round, she fancied that she saw a shadow, which had protruded from the deeper gloom, hastily flit back, a few yards further up the walk; but if this had really happened, it retreated so fleetly, and the variety of shadows thrown out by the trees and shrubs were so perplexing, that she could not but regard it with uncertainty and doubt. Nevertheless, she kept her eye on the spot for several minutes, intently surveying its every outline, without discerning anything confirmatory of her fears; and, somewhat reassured, she turned to the door again.

Passing in, she softly closed the door, and glanced around. Some embers of a fire were gleaming in the andirons, on the side of the room opposite to the door, and the light they afforded, though no more than rendered the darkness visible, served as a mark for her steps, and enabled her to grope her way forward. As she came up to the andirons, her dress caught in something at her feet, and, stooping to see what it was, she found that there was a heap of furze, or dried heather, on one side of the andirons, ready for use in the morning. She threw a handful of this into the fireplace; and the dim embers, revived by her breath, which she blew upon them with all her force, mounted into a flame. A log of wood which she found at hand, and which she laid on the top of the furze, soon provided her with a good and cheerful fire.

The light thus furnished enabled Inez to look round the kitchen more narrowly. It inspired her, too, with more courage—if that which was derived from an extraneous influence, not from any source within, might be called courage. Still her glance was timid and hasty, and the cheering effect of the fire, though it rendered her situation more tolerable, had evidently not relieved her of her many depressing apprehensions. Indeed, this very light itself, by revealing to her the outlines of every part of the room, soon presented her with some ground, beyond that which sprang from her natural timidity, for her very worst fears. As her survey progressed, she observed the door of a neighbouring closet, on which the fire shed its full light, slightly pulled back, as though it had been a little open, and was drawn close by some person within. Her terror was excessive, but it was of that kind which, by representing escape to be impracticable, impelled her forward, and she made one desperate spring to the closet-door.

She drew the door open, and the light, pouring full into the closet, revealed to her the person of a cavalier. But though she started, it was not with fear, but surprise; for the cavalier, in whom she had expected to find a ruthless enemy, was no other than her lover.

“Is’t thou?” she exclaimed. “Come forth to the fire.”

Hildebrand, thus invited, stepped out of the closet, and advanced with her to the fire.

“How camest thou hither, dear lady?” he inquired.

“I came to seek thee, Senhor,” answered Inez, blushing. “I was afeard, from the manner of thy retreat, that thou mightst have met some mishap, and be lying disabled in the garden. How didst thou come hither?”

“It may be briefly told, dear lady,” said Hildebrand. “When I had got me behind the curtain, in thy chamber, I found the casement was open; and, looking out, I observed the veranda over the rearward door, by which we had gained ingress to the house, only a few feet beneath. Meantime, thy churlish guardian, as I suppose him, did intrude on thy presence, and I heard him and thee bandying high words. It struck me, on this hint, that, if he should hap to fall on my covert, ’twould bring on thee more particular injury; and, so thinking, I sought to get me beyond his reach. The casement being already open, I turned myself over the sill with ease; and the noise made by your voices, which anger and jealousy had raised to the very highest parlance, prevented my proceedings from being heard.”

“’Twas well we talked so loud,” smiled Inez. “But how then?”

“Clinging round the lower frame of the casement,” resumed Hildebrand, “I dropped my feet to the veranda, and there, standing upright, surveyed its height from the ground. It looked a marvellous great distance, but I knew, from my experience of such matters, that it got this look of magnitude from the prevailing darkness; and, supposing it to involve but little peril, I made a bold spring for ’t. My conjecture proved correct, and I lit safely on the ground.”

“’Twas bravely done,” said Inez, unwittingly clinging more fondly to his arm. “But having reached the garden, how was it thou didst not pursue thy retreat?”

“By this hand,” answered Hildebrand, raising her trembling hand to his lips, “I could not have won the street, an’ I had been minded. I had scarce touched the ground, when a man started out on the path before me, with something in his hand, which I took to be a rapier. Though I was not afeard to encounter him, I had no desire to spill blood, and, therefore, I resolved to keep perdu a while. But he was on the watch, and, whether he suspected my vicinity, or simply sought to overlook the house, he held his ground, and so kept me close. This wearied me, and I determined, whatever should ensue, to set forward again. The darkness favoured me, and, keeping close to the house, I crept stealthily onward, and paused not till I came here. After staying here a space, I had concluded to sally out, and, if no one should be about, try to gain the street; but at this juncture, I heard thy step approach, and that, of course, brought me to a stand. Not doubting that thou wast some enemy, I looked round for a hiding-place; and, by good fortune, espied yonder closet, where thou didst happily discover me.”

“’Tis a downright tale of adventure,” observed Inez, with a smile.

“And I will be surety,” remarked Hildebrand, in reply, “thy progress hither hath also been venturesome. How didst thou fare, lady?”

Inez, quite reassured by their seeming security, did not hesitate to meet his inquiry with a full account of her excursion, and the thoughts and apprehensions that, according as its incidents were favourable or adverse, or her anxiety for Hildebrand more or less pressing, had marked its progress. Her narrative had a deeper effect on Hildebrand, whom his recent moments of reflection had rendered more collected, and less subservient to the wild impulses of passion, than she supposed; and inspired him with a more apparent interest than she had looked for. Indeed, in its detail of risks and terrors, it exhibited such a devoted affection for him, above what he had sought to excite, that he could no longer regard her as a mere light-of-love, or safely venture to trifle with her heart. The artless narration awakened his better nature, and, by the very confidence that it placed in him, called up in his bosom a sense of remorse, that was far from lending a stimulant to the dictates of passion. In the revelation of her fears and anxieties, he saw the tenderness and deep sensibility of her amiable heart, and became aware, by this discovery, that her character was not composed of the light elements he had imagined, but of all the choice and sterling qualities of her sex.

It would have been well for Hildebrand if he had paused on this interposition of his better judgment. It would have been a happy reflection for him, at a more advanced period of his life, that the first compunctious qualms of his warm and generous nature had not been unheeded, and that he had made a timely retreat from the temptation which he had so diligently sought. But his remorse and hesitation lasted only while he remained silent. Directly he replied to Inez, they began to subside, and, with the renewal of the conversation, his passion revived.

If Hildebrand betrayed such indecision under this first trial, it may reasonably be expected, from her youth and inexperience, not to mention the greater weakness of her sex, that Inez should be off her guard in an equal degree. Her passion, indeed, was true and genuine, and was becoming deeper and more deep every moment. It was attachment—not only to his person, but to his thoughts, wishes, and character; an interest in everything that, now or hereafter, in any measure concerned him, and which was gradually and imperceptibly absorbing all thought and care of herself, and making him the leading influence of her most precious affections.

Her attachment had just attained that crisis, if we may use such a term, at which it would be difficult, but might not be impossible, to uproot or restrain it. Here she might pause, but a single step more, with whatever caution it were taken, must be decisive and final, and could never be retraced. Whether she knew this, or not, or ever gave it a thought, she did not pause once, but left her affections without the least guard, and exposed to all the impressions which a fervid and sanguine temperament, free from the least taint of selfishness, could derive from the dangerous and very striking peculiarity of her position.

The timidity she had manifested on discovering Hildebrand in the closet gradually wore away, and, whether from the excitement of conversation, or the fellowship that sprang from a sense of surrounding peril, by which they were both alike affected, she shortly became more confident. She had dropped her hold of Hildebrand’s arm, but had suffered him, by way of requital, to retain possession of her small hand, which he probably considered a greater favour. Whatever light he viewed it in, however, it did not lead him to forget, in the pleasure of the passing moment, that his situation was one of some danger, and that it was expedient to make an early effort to gain the street. After conversing with Inez for a while, he reminded her of this, and proposed that he should now set out.

“Ah, art thou so hasty?” said Inez, plaintively. “Even thus restless, I fear me, will be thy professed love, which will soon wander from me, to light on some other.”

“I’faith, fair Inez, ’tis thy reproach that is hasty,” answered Hildebrand. “But”—

“Hush!” whispered Inez, shrinking back on his arm.

Hildebrand, following her eye, glanced anxiously at the door. Listening a moment, he distinctly heard the tread of footsteps, and some voices, as it seemed to him, conversing in whispers. He had hardly time to seize the hilt of his rapier, when the door was thrown open, and two cavaliers, with their rapiers already drawn, sprang into the room. The light of the fire, which the draught through the open door had somewhat brightened, enabled Hildebrand to distinguish their faces; and, to his surprise, he recognised in the foremost cavalier an old and unexpected enemy:—it was Don Felix di Corva.