prevented by force, the screams she sometimes uttered in her paroxysms of rage were fearful, and must inevitably be heard. Besides, there was the chance of her evading their vigilance, and she would then fly, like an arrow, to the threatened danger.

"I must try the only hope I have-God help me."

Beatrice went to the fountain, and in the wine and water mixed a portion of laudanum: her mother, seeing the glass, asked for it eagerly, and drained the whole contents. All her efforts were now to be exerted to keep her unfortunate parent amused. With a strong effort she mastered her agitation-she helped her to gather flowers --she made them into wreaths for her hair-she pointed out her image in the fountain, and Margaretta laughed with delight. After a while she complained of being fatigued. Beatrice thought, with an agony of apprehension, of the sleep that was quickly coming over her. In a few moments more, Donna Margaretta was in a profound slumber.

The two servants, the moment their mistress was quiet, seized the opportunity to depart: Marcela to seek a neighboring village, whither two of the domestics had gone to attend the festival of St. Francis, and warn them against an abrupt return: Pedro to their own village, to learn, if possible, what was likely to be the stay of the soldiers. Evening was coming on fast, and not a moment was to be lost. Beatrice could hardly force herself to tell them not to return if the least peril was in the attempt. They departed with the utmost caution-scarce a rustle among the leaves told her she was alone. The next two hours passed in listening to every noise-the waving of a bough made her heart beat audibly-or in watching the placid sleep of her mother.

The last small red cloud mirrored in the fountain disap. peared-distant objects were lost in obscurity-the shadows seemed, as they do seem at nightfall, almost substantial— tree after tree disappeared-the fountain and the nearer shrubs looked like fantastic figures; she fancied she could see them move. Even these became invisible; and the darkness was so entire that, to use the common but expressive phrase, she could not see her hand. Still, voices came from the house, in singing and shouts. It was evident they intended to pass the night there, and were consuming its earlier part in revelry. The hope

she had hitherto entertained of their departure was at an end.

To spend the night in the open air was nothing to the mountain bred girl. She crept close to her mother-the moss and heaped up leaves were soft and dry-she leant over her, and felt her warm breath on her cheek; she then knelt beside and prayed earnestly in the English tongue. There was superstition, perhaps, in this—but affection is superstitious.

At length the sounds from the house ceased-strange, she missed them; the utter silence and the darkness were so fearful in their stillness! A single star—a tone from a familiar voice-she would have blessed. How long the time seemed! As the night deepened, all her efforts against sleep were unavailing; more she dared not. Amid such utter darkness, the chances were, that if she left her mother's side, she might not again find her place. Sleep did overcome her-that feverish, broken sleep, which renews, in some fantastic manner, the fears of our waking. Even this was disturbed. Was it a sound in her dream, or some actual noise, that made her start up in all that vague gasping terror which follows when abruptly roused? All was still for a moment; and then a flash, or rather flood of lightning glared away the darkness-the fountain for an instant was like a basin of fire-every tree, ay, every bough, leaf and flower, were as distinct as by day: one second more, and the thunder shook the very ground.

Beatrice perceived that it was one of those awful storms which gather on the lofty mountains, and but leave their mighty cradles to pour destruction on the vales below. Flash succeeded flash, peal followed peal, mixed with the crashing branches, and a wind which was like a hurricane in voice and might. Suddenly the thunder itself was lost in the tremendous fall of an old oak, which, struck by the lightning, reeled, like an overthrown giant, to the earth. It sank directly before the spot which sheltered the fugitives; some of its boughs swept against those of the ilex over their heads; a shower of leaves fell upon Beatrice, and with the next flash she could see nothing but the huge branches which blocked them in.

But even the terror that another bolt might strike the very tree above them, was lost in a still more agonising dread. How could her mother sleep through a tumult like this? Beatrice touched her hands-they felt like

marble; she bent over her mouth, but the arm prevented her touching the lips; and the attitude in which she lay equally hindered her from feeling if her heart beat; but the upper part of the face was as cold, she thought, as death. "Great God! I have killed my mother." She

bent to raise her in her arms-she might thus ascertain if her heart beat. Again she paused, and wrung her hands in the agony of indecision. She had heard that those whom noise could not wake were easily roused by being moved. If she, to satisfy her own fears, were to wake her mother! Beatrice trembled even to touch her hand. The storm had now spent its fury, and was succeeded by a heavy shower. Fortunately, the thick shelter of the leaves protected them; and the rain that fell through, though sufficient to drench her own light garments, would do little injury to the thick cloak which enveloped her mother. It was too violent to last; but a long and dreary interval had yet to pass before daybreak,-haunted, too, by the fear of her mother's death, which had now completely taken possession of poor Beatrice. At last a faint break appeared in the sky; it widened, objects became faintly outlined on the air-shadowy, indistinct, and sometimes seeming as if about to darken again; a slight red hue suddenly shone on the trunk of the ilex, and light came rapidly through the branches. Beatrice only watched it as it fell on her mother; her face was now visible—it wore the placid look of a sleeping child; again she felt her warm breath upon her cheek. For the first time that night, Beatrice wept, and in the blessing of such tears forgot for a moment the dangers which yet surrounded them.

She now perceived that they were quite hemmed in by the fallen tree-she could see nothing beyond its boughs. Those boughs were soon to prove their safety. About two hours after daybreak, she heard sounds from the house, voices calling, and the note of a trumpet. She listened anxiously, when, to her dismay, the sounds approached. She distinguished steps, then voices-both alike strange. They were the two officers of the detachment, loitering away time till their men were ready.

"The inhabitants were off like pigeons," said one. "I wonder if they had any concealed treasure-I wish we had caught them, on that account," was the reply. "Small signs of that," observed the first speaker; besides, the war, we know, ruined Don Henriquez."

66

"They say his wife was beautiful: I should like to have seen her. I owe the Hidalgo an old grudge. Well, if he gets out of his dungeon-to do which he must be an angel for wings, or a saint for miracles-he won't find much at home."

Again the trumpet sounded; it seemed to be a signal, for the speakers hurried off, and Beatrice at last heard the trampling of the horses gradually lost in the distance. She waited yet a little while, and then, her mother still appearing to sleep soundly, she thought she might leave her for a few minutes.

With some difficulty she forced a way through the boughs. What devastation had a night effected! Flowers torn up by the roots-huge branches broken off as if they had been but leaves, and two or three trees utterly blown down-showed how the little garden had been laid open to its unwelcome visiters. With a rapid, yet cautious step, she proceeded to the house. Not a human being was near, and she entered. What utter, what wanton destruction had been practised! The furniture lay in broken fragments-every portable article had been carried away-the walls defaced, and in one or two places burnt. There seemed to have been an intention of firing the house. What she felt most bitterly yet remained. There hung the blackened frames of her father and her mother's portraits, but the pictures had been consumed.

But Beatrice knew it was no time to indulge in lamenta tions. In the kitchen yet smouldered the remains of fire, and this she soon kindled to a flame, and nourished it with wood which was scattered about. A step on the threshold made her start up in terror: it was only Pedro. A few words explained their mutual situation. He had been unable to return, but had watched the soldiers depart, and had come from the village with provision and offers of assistance. Both went to the arbor; and while with his axe and the assistance of a villager he opened a path through the boughs, Beatrice entered to watch the slumber she now most thankfully desired to break. She bathed the face of the sleeper with some essence, raised her in her arms, and called upon her name. As if to reward her for her last night's forberance, Dona Margaretta stirred with the first movement, and opened her eyes. Still, she was evidently oppressed by sleep, though cold and shivering. Pedro and his companion carried her to the house-a couch was

formed by the fireside-and Beatrice never left her till thoroughly warmed and awakened. It was evident that she, at least, had sustained some injury.

Beatrice rushed into the next room to throw herself on her knees in thanksgiving. Fatigue, distress, loss, were all absorbed in one overpowering feeling of gratitude. But the reaction was too strong; her nurse now arrived: and when Beatrice threw her arms around her neck to welcome her, for the first time in her life she fainted.

The young Spaniard had now to commence a course of small daily exertions, the most trying of all to one whose habits hitherto had been those of imaginative idlessemornings passed over a favorite volume, evenings over her lute, only interrupted by attention to her mother, of which affection made a delight. Now the common comforts, even the necessaries of life, were suddenly taken from them. Their valuables had mostly been carried off; and rent and service were quite optional with the peasantry. Long habit, and the remembrance of protection, still more that of kindness, met their reward in all possible assistance from the village. The little plate that, from its concealment, had escaped, was sold at once. The produce was sufficient for the present; and Beatrice resolved, by the smallness of the demands on the tenants of her father, to leave as little encouragement as possible to the avarice that might tempt them to seize such an opportunity for ending their Hidalgo's claim.

She dismissed all the domestics except the nurse and her husband, and an old negro, who, bred from infancy in their service, had not an idea beyond. She took every thing under her own direction. A small part only of the house was attempted to be made habitable-a small part only of the garden to be cultivated, and that soon became an important branch of their domestic economy. Their honey and grapes, from the care bestowed on each, found a market at the town, which was a few leagues distant. They were equally fortunate in their wine; and the lamentations of Pedro and Marcela over the downfall of their master's house, mixed with a few hints of its degradation, were lost in the silent conviction of the real comfort attendant on these new plans.

With two especial difficulties Beatrice had to contend. The first was to induce old servants to believe that a young mistress could know better than themselves: and this was VOL. II.-11