No sooner had the Alguazil departed from the enclosure, than the figure which Juan had beheld obscurely among the shadows, stepped slowly into the moonshine, looking like a phantom, because so closely shrouded from head to foot that nothing was seen but the similitude of a human being, wrapped, as it might be imagined, in a gray winding-sheet. The thick hood and veil concealed her countenance, and even her hands were hidden among the folds.

It seemed, for a moment, as if she were about to speak, for low murmurs came inarticulately from the veil. As for Juan himself, he was kept silent by the most painful agitation. At last, and when it appeared as if the unhappy being was conscious that no other mode of revealment was in her power, she raised her hand to her head, and the next moment, the hood falling back, the moonbeams fell upon the exposed visage of La Monjonaza. It was exceedingly, indeed deadly, pale; and the gleaming of her dewy forehead indicated how feebly even her powerful strength of mind contended with a sense of humiliation. She made an effort to elevate her head, to compose her features into womanly dignity, but all in vain; her hands sought each other, and were clasped together upon her breast, her lips quivered, her head fell, and her eyes, after one wild, brief, and supplicating glance, were cast upon the earth.

"Alas, Magdalena!" exclaimed Juan, with tones of the deepest feeling, "do I see you here, do I see you thus?"

At these words she raised her head, with a sudden and convulsive start, as if the imputation they conveyed had stung her to the soul; and as she bent her eyes upon Juan, though they were filled with tears, yet they flashed with what seemed a noble indignation. But this was soon changed to a milder and sadder expression, and the flush which had accompanied it, was quickly replaced by her former paleness.

"Thou dost indeed see me here," she replied, summoning her resolution, and speaking firmly, "and thou seest me thus,—degraded, not in thine imagination only, but in the suspicions of all, down to the level of scorn. Yes," she continued, bitterly, "and while thou pitiest me for a shame endured only for thyself,—endured only that I may requite thee with life for life,—thou art sorry thy hand ever snatched me from the billows. Speak, Juan Lerma, is it not so?"

"It had been better, Magdalena," said the youth, reproachfully, "for, besides that the act caused me to be stained with blood, it afflicts me with a curse still more heavy. I do not mourn the death of Hilario, as I mourn the downfall of one whom I once esteemed almost a seraph."

"Villain that he was!" cried Magdalena, with vindictive impetuosity, "mean and malignant in life and in death! who, with a lie, living, destroyed the peace and the fame of the friendless, and died with a lie, that both might remain blighted for ever! O wretch! O wretch! there is no punishment for him among the fiends, for he was of their nature. And thou mournest his death, too! Thou cursest the hand that avenged the wrong of a feeble woman!"

"I lament that I slew the son of my benefactor," said Juan, with a deep sigh; and then added with one still deeper, "but, sinner that I am, I rejoice while looking on thee, in the fierce thought, that I killed the destroyer of innocence."

"The destroyer of innocence indeed," replied Magdalena, with a voice broken and suffocating. "Yes, innocence!" she exclaimed more wildly, "or at least, the fame of innocence! for innocence herself he could not harm. No, by heaven! oh, no! for what I came from the sea, that I am now; yes, now, I tell thee, now! and if thou darest give tongue to aught else, if thou darest think—Oh heaven! this is more than I can bear! Say, Juan Lerma! say! dost thou, too, believe me the thing I am called? the base, the fallen, the degraded?"

"Alas, Magdalena," replied Juan, to the wild demand: "with his dying lips, Hilario——"

"With his dying lips, he perjured his soul for ever!" exclaimed Magdalena, "for ever, for ever!" she went on, with inexpressible energy and fury; "and may the curse of a broken-hearted woman, destroyed by his defaming malice, cling to him as long, scorching him with fresh torments, even when fiends grow relentful and forbearing. Mountains of fire requite the coals he has thrown upon my bosom! May God never forgive him! no, never! never!"

"This is horrid!" said Juan. "Revoke thy malediction: it is impiety. Alas, alas!" he continued, moved with compassion, as the singular being, passing at once from a sibyl-like rage to the deepest and most feminine abasement of grief, wrung her hands, and sobbed aloud and bitterly; "Would indeed that thou hadst perished with the others!"

"Would that I had!" said Magdalena, more calmly; "but thou hadst then been left to a malice like that which has slain me.—No, not like that; for it is content with thy life!—I would ask thee more of myself," she went on, more composedly, after a little pause, "but it needs not. If I can show thee thou wrongest me concerning Hilario, canst thou not believe I may be even here without stain? Well, I care not; one day, thou wilt know thou hast wronged me. But let the shame rest upon me now; for it needs I should think, not of myself, but of thee. Listen to me, Juan Lerma; for fallen or not, yet am I thine only friend among a thousand enemies. Give up thy service, thy hopes of fame and fortune in this land, and leave it. Leave Mexico, return to the islands. Thou hast marvellously escaped a death, subtly and cruelly designed; and now thou art destined to an end as vengeful, and perhaps even more inevitable. Yet there is one way of escape, and there is one moment to take advantage of it. Leave Mexico: Cortes is thy foe.—Leave Mexico."

"These are but wild words, Magdalena," said Juan, with a troubled voice. "I would do much to remove thee from a situation, the thought whereof is bitterer to me than my own misfortunes."

"Wouldst thou?" said Magdalena, eagerly. "Go then, and I go likewise; go then, and know that thy departure not only releases me from a situation of disgrace, but enables me to make clear a reputation which thou—yes, thou,—believest to be sullied and lost. I am not what I seem—Saints of heaven, that I should have to say it! But by the grave of my mother, I swear, Juan Lerma, thou doest me as deep a wrong as others. Leave this land, and thou shalt see that the fame of an angel is not purer than mine own scorned name,—no, by heaven, no freer from a deserved shame. Thou shakest thy head!—I could kill thee, Juan Lerma, I could kill thee!"—she went on, with a strange mingling of fierce resentment and beseeching grief; "I could kill thee, for I have not deserved this of thee!" Then, changing her tone, and clasping her hands submissively, she said, "But think not of me, or rather continue to think me unworthy of aught but pity: think not, above all, that what I do is with any reference to myself. No, heaven is my witness, I claim of thee neither affection nor respect; I am content to be mistaken, to be despised. All this I can endure, and will, uncomplaining,—so that I can rescue thee from the danger in which thou art placed. Leave this land: Don Hernan deceives thee; he hates thee, and thirsts after thy blood. He has confessed it!"

"God be my help!" said Juan, despairingly; "my life is in his hands. If this be true—"

"If it be true!" repeated Magdalena: "It is known to all but thyself."

"It is not true!" exclaimed the young man, vehemently: "I have done him no wrong, and he is not the detestable being you would make him. If he be, I owe him a life—let him have it; it is in his hands."

"Leave Mexico," reiterated Magdalena. "If thou goest to Tochtepec, thou art lost. I have it in my power to aid,—nay, to secure thy escape. Say, therefore, thou wilt consent, say thou wilt leave Mexico!"

"It cannot be," said Juan, with a sad and sullen resolution: "I will await my fate in Mexico!"

"And wilt thou stand, like the fat ox, till the noose is cast upon thy neck? till thou art butchered?"

"My life is nothing—I live not for myself; the redemption of others depends upon my acts. I have a duty that speaks more urgently than fear. My lot is cast in Mexico; I cannot leave it."

As he spoke, with a firm voice, he bent his looks expressively on his companion. Her eyes flashed fire, and they shone from her pale face like living coals:

"Sayst thou this to me?" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with fury, "sayst thou this to me?" Then advancing a step, and laying her hand upon his arm, she continued, her accents sinking almost into whispers, they were so subdued, or so feeble, "Lay not upon thy soul a sin greater than stains it already. Leave Mexico; resolve or die: leave Mexico, or perish!—Oh, thou art guiltier than thou thinkest! Thou hast cursed Hilario for my fall: curse thyself,—not Hilario, but thyself; for but for thee, but for thee, I had been happy! yes, happy, happy!"

To these words, Juan, though greatly compassionating the distress of the speaker, would have replied with remonstrance; but she gave him no opportunity. She continued to repeat over and over again, with a kind of hysterical pertinacity, the words 'Leave Mexico! leave Mexico!' so that Juan was not only prevented replying, but confounded. He was relieved from embarrassment by a sudden growl, coming from the bushes at his side. La Monjonaza started at the sound, and in the moment of silence that succeeded, both could distinguish the steps of a man rapidly approaching the pool. At the same instant, another growl was heard, and Befo, issuing from the leafy covert, took a stand by his master's side, as if to defend him from an enemy. The veil of Magdalena fell over her visage; she paused but to whisper, in tones of such energy that they thrilled him to the soul, 'Leave Mexico, or die!' and then instantly vanished among the boughs. It was too late for Juan to follow her: he had scarce time to lay his hand upon Befo's neck and moderate his ferocity, before his eyes were struck with the strange spectacle of a tall man, in the garb of a Dominican friar, his face pale as death, his hand holding a naked sword, who strode into the inclosure and upon that part of the path which was illuminated by the moonbeams. No sooner had he cast his eyes upon Juan than he exclaimed, "Die, wretch!" and made a pass at him with his weapon. Had the lunge been skilfully made, it must have proved fatal; for though Juan still held the sheathless rapier he had brought from his chamber, he was so much surprised at the suddenness of the apparition, that his attempt to ward it could not have succeeded against a good fencer. A better protection was given by the faithful Befo, who, darting from Juan's hand, against the assailant's breast, attacked him with a shock so violent, that, in an instant, the seÑor Camarga (for it was he who played this insane part) lay rolling upon his back, his grizzled locks streaming in the pool.

"In the name of heaven, what dost thou mean, and who art thou, impostor and assassin!" cried Juan, pulling off the dog, and helping Camarga to his feet. "Thou art mad, I think!"

There was something in the man's countenance, as well as in the murderous attempt, to confirm the idea; for Camarga's agitation was singular and extreme, and he seemed unable to answer a word.

"Who art thou?" continued Juan angrily, impressed with the certainty that he had seen the face of the assailant before, yet without knowing when or where. "Confess thyself straight, or I will have thee to the Alguazil, and see the friar's frock scourged from thy base body!"

However eager and foreboding the young man's curiosity, it was doomed to be disappointed by a new interruption. While he yet spoke, he was alarmed by a sudden discharge of firearms, followed by shrieks and cries, at the bottom of the garden; and presently the whole solitude was transformed into a scene of tumult and uproar. Lights were seen flashing among the trees, and men were heard running confusedly to and fro, calling to one another.

The last word had hardly parted from his lips, before the boughs crashed on the opposite side of the pool, and a new actor was suddenly added to the scene.