May 31, 1845

The Grand Inquisidor’s Love

Two months had passed away since the lovely Dolorez, so miraculously delivered from the persecution of Peter Arbuez, was placed by the kind care of John of Avila in a convent of Holy Sisters of Charity. During those two months also, had Don Manuel Argoso, the unhappy father of the young lady, languished in secret in the dungeons of the Inquisition—those vast sepulchres whence one would almost be surprised to see any individual go forth alive.

In spite of the researches and the zeal of Henriquez, who had been in the meantime nominated governor of Seville, the Inquisidor had failed to discover the retreat of Dolorez, who, on entering the convent as a boarder, had taken another name. His impure passion had increased; and with the impossibility to satisfy it, came a profound disgust—an internal and deeply concentrated rage—which filled the soul of that worldly-minded priest, who avenged his own disappointments on the wretches whom he was called upon to judge.

Urged by the advice of Joseph,—excited in the perverse instincts of his ferocious nature by that young priest, who appeared to be his evil genius,—Peter Arbuez accumulated upon his head the maledictions of all Spain; but neither the aspect of dreadful penalties, nor the lugubrious solemnities of the scaffold, could quench that thirst after carnal enjoyments, nor satisfy those ardent and sensual desires, which the remembrance of the lovely Andalusian created in the licentious breast of the Grand Inquisidor.

By overwhelming the late governor of Seville with his indignation and anger, the Grand Inquisidor had no other object in view but to induce his daughter to surrender herself to him: he had acted with all the vile cunning of a man who knew the heart of woman. To arrest her,—to plunge her into the dungeons of the Inquisition,—to give her over to the hands of the torturers,— this would have been vain and fruitless; because the heroic young girl would have known how to suffer and to die—for she loved! But to attack her father—to hurl him from his high position, and crush him beneath the heavy weight of inquisitorial torments, to menace him with the pyres of the auto-de-fa,—these were the means to curb the proud soul of Dolorez, and bring her a willing and resigned self-sacrifice to the feet of the Inquisidor! To see her venerable father delivered up to the executioners of the terrible tribunal,—that father whom she loved so tenderly, and who had loved her so well,—that parent who had rendered her life so happy that she had scarcely experienced in the loss of a mother to the full extent of that misfortune,—this fearful crisis was the limit of the Grand Inquisidor’s thoughts; for he imagined that then—then, would Dolorez surrender herself to him, to purchase the safety of that revered parent. But whither had she fled? where was she? how had she contrived to elude his researches?

Vainly had the inquisitorial militia used all its exertions to discover the hiding-place of Dolorez;—vainly had the Order of Garduna received the most magnificent promises of money and protection;—a providential power seemed to hover over the young Andalusian damsel, whom the most holy of living men had undertaken to shield;—or else, according to celestial decrees, the moment of persecution had not yet arrived for her!

But was that moment far distant?

The disappointment of Peter Arbuez was so profound and bitter, that even the debauched habits of his life had lost, for him, their most salient attractions. The orgies of the pavilion seemed monotonous and dull; the women whom vice or fear delivered up to his loose desires, left him cold or only excited.⁶⁰ His whole thoughts were fixed upon Dolorez.

One afternoon he was walking with Joseph in the magnificent gardens of his palace.

“You have heard no news of her, Joseph?” enquired the Inquisidor.

“None, my lord; I have been unable to discover a single trace of the fugitive.”

That question and that answer were very obscure; but those two men understood each other with a single word. Joseph fully comprehended the secret soul of the Grand Inquisidor.

“What can I do?” murmured Arbuez, scarcely able to suppress his rage. “I have used all human exertions. The militia of the Holy Office has searched every nook and corner of the province; my gold has accelerated the energies of that miserable race of Gardunos whose avocations are murder and treachery; and I have enquired at every convent in Seville! But no—no—she remains invisible—lost! Can she have quitted the kingdom? has that tender and pious maiden, in order to save herself, abandoned her father?”

Arbuez spoke correctly in one respect: he had left no plan unattempted to obtain a clue to the retreat of the governor’s daughter. He had indeed made enquiries at all the convents; and that of the Holy Sisters of Charity had not been excepted. A simple circumstance had however saved Dolorez on that occasion. As she had not manifested any intention to take the veil, and as she was strongly recommended by the Apostle, she enjoyed complete liberty; and she only fulfilled those religious exercises and duties in the establishment which were imperative upon every good Catholic. Dolorez was particularly fond of flowers; and, in the immense garden of the convent, she had chosen a solitary spot where she cultivated with her own hand’s the plants which she loved the most. Thus, when the Grand Inquisidor visited the convent, she was in that retired spot—afar from the cloistral buildings.

Arbuez had certainly questioned the Abbess of the convent whether the Senora Dolorez was an inmate of her abode; but as the abbess knew the young lady by another name only, she replied in the negative: then, as it never struck her that the charming boarder might be the object of the Inquisidor’s search, she made no allusion to her. Indeed, this silence was neither a precaution or measure of prudence: it was the simple result of forgetfulness.

Thus was it that Peter Arbuez was almost inclined to believe that Donna Dolorez had in reality quitted Seville.

“My lord,” said Joseph, “if this young lady have actually escaped from the sphere of your lordship’s jurisdiction, would it not be as well to write to the inquisitorial tribunals of Malaga, Cuenca, Valencia, Cadiz, and Barcelona—in a word, to all the courts of Holy Office in Spain—or even to the King himself, so that the sbirri of the Inquisition may every where be placed in pursuit of her?”

“No—no,” exclaimed Peter Arbuez; “it is not her death I require—it is herself, herself!”

“Is not the governor of Seville in the dungeons of the Inquisition?” demanded Joseph.

“Certainly; and that is why I cannot comprehend the flight of his daughter,” answered Peter Arbuez. “Oh! that she would come—that she would come,” he continued, in a species of delirium; “with what joy would I say to her, ‘Thy father shall be free, but thou must be mine;’—and she would sacrifice herself to save her sire!”

“And her sire would not be saved,” murmured Joseph, in a low tone, as he darted a ferocious look towards the Grand Inquisidor.

“What did you say, Joseph?”

“I was thinking, my lord, what new torments might be invented to terrify the young damsel, in case she should be discovered.”

“Who goes there?” suddenly ejaculated Peter Arbuez, starting back.

“Your faithful Henriquez, my lord,” answered the new governor of Seville.

“Why surprise me thus?” demanded the Grand Inquisidor, impatiently.

“I had good news to communicate, my lord; and I thought—” began the governor humbly.

“Speak! what is it?”

“Dolorez Argoso—”

“Ah!” cried the Inquisidor, now becoming all attention.

“Is at the convent of Holy Sisters of Charity on the banks of the Guadalquiver.”

“Dolorez! Impossible!” cried the Inquisidor.

“For two months has she dwelt there, my lord,” returned Henriquez.

“It is false!” ejaculated Arbuez: “I myself visited that asylum amongst others, and she was not there.”

“I swear to you, my lord, that I speak the truth, I will prove the truth of my assertion.”

“Excellent Henriquez!” cried the Grand Inquisidor, overjoyed at these tidings: “excellent Henriquez! But how hast thou made this grand discovery?”

“My lord,” answered the governor, bowing in a grotesque manner, “will your Eminence grant me absolution for my faults? I disguised myself as a monk, and confessed the Abbess.”

“Indeed!” cried Peter Arbuez: “behold an idea which never even occurred to me, who am a priest.”

“Will your Eminence grant me absolution?” repeated Henriquez hypocritically.

The Inquisidor made a sign of the cross; and the new governor, raising his head proudly, smiled with the complaisance of a man who comprehended the full extent of the services which he had rendered.

“This is well,” said the Grand Inquisidor, rubbing his hands together: “charming Dolorez, thy hiding-place is at length revealed to me! But come with me to my palace, Henriquez; and inform me how proceed the details of your office. Does heresy progress?”

“My lord, it gains ground in a terrible manner. The convents themselves are not exempt from that leprosy.”

“By Satan, I will extirpate the gangrene!” ejaculated Peter Arbuez. “We must treat as heretics all those who do not denounce heresy. But whom have you to denounce in particular?”

“I will send your lordship a list to-morrow,” answered Henriquez. “Amongst them are two or three theologians who affect to discover errors in the Latin text of the Vulgate,⁶¹ and several other eminent persons of the same stamp who, while they call themselves Catholics, are in reality the zealous admirers of the infidel Martin Luther⁶².”

“And amongst the class of persons who secretly love the damnable principles of that heretic,” cried the Grand Inquisidor, “is John of Avila—a man who has gained a powerful influence over the multitude, and whose conduct is outwardly too correct to admit of a shadow of excuse for effecting his arrest.”

“My lord,” said Joseph, “you can close every mouth in Seville that dares to speak disrespectfully of the things which your Eminence treats with respect and would have respected.”

“And I will do so, Joseph,” answered the Grand Inquisidor. “If the Vicar of Jesus Christ really understands the interests of the Church, he will allow me to rage against all those democratic preachers, without discrimination or distinction, and burn them every one like simple laymen, since they are heretics by the fact that they cause and promote divisions in the Roman Church, in spite of their ecclesiastical characters⁶³.”

“My lord,” said Joseph coldly, “to kill the tree you must destroy the roots. So long as there shall remain a single heretic in Spain, heresy will be propagated like evil weeds, of which not a particle—not a germ should be suffered to exist.”

“We will see to it all,” said the Inquisidor warmly; “and if it be necessary; we will even tear up the very earth which nourishes those evil roots.’

Thus conversing, they reached the entrance of the inquisitorial palace.

“Will you accompany us, Joseph?” asked the Grand Inquisidor.

“Pray your lordship, excuse me: I have a sermon to compose for to-morrow.’

“And after your sermon, you will accompany us to the convent of Holy Sisters?”

“I am always at your lordship’s command,” replied Joseph, with a low bow.

Arbuez and the new governor of Seville entered the palace together. Joseph passed through the hall into the street. But upon the very threshold of the inquisitorial mansion, he encountered a young female clad in black from head to foot.

Perceiving by his garb of a Dominican that he was a priest of the order to which Peter Arbuez belonged, and seeing him come from the inquisitorial palace, the young lady immediately concluded that he was attached to the Holy Office. Accosting him, therefore, with clasped hands, and with deep grief depicted upon her countenance, she exclaimed, “Reverend father, obtain for me an audience of the lord Arbuez.”

“Who are you?” demanded Joseph, “and what would you with the Grand Inquisidor?”

“I come to implore him to save the life of my father,” answered the young maiden,—“of my father who is innocent, and who is accused of heresy—of my father who was governor of Seville, and who at the present moment——”

“Donna Dolorez!” ejaculated Joseph, considering with an ardent curiosity the countenance of the young lady—that charming countenance which was half concealed beneath the black lace of her veil!

“How do you know my name?” enquired the young lady, trembling.

“Dolorez Argoso,” continued the Dominican, in a voice full of tenderness and softness, “do not approach this house; for there are dishonour and death for you!”

“How know you that?” she demanded, now fearfully alarmed.

The Dominican led Dolorez hastily away, and she offered no resistance, but accompanied him with the docility of a lamb.

“Come, poor young lady,” exclaimed the priest, as he conducted Dolorez from the dangerous vicinity of the inquisitorial palace; “come—and if you wish to remain pure and virtuous as you now are,—and if you would save the life of your father,—conceal yourself—Oh! conceal yourself from the sight of Peter Arbuez.”

“What must I do to save my father?” asked Dolorez, reassured by the kind manner in which the young monk spoke; for, in spite of the terrible garb which he wore, the voice of the Dominican was full of affectionate warmth and tender melancholy: “what must I do to save my father?”

“Conceal yourself—and allow me to act,” replied Joseph.

“You!” she exclaimed, glancing towards his garb in an affrighted manner.

“Yes—trust to me—to me, who beneath this ominous garb, possess an ardent and good heart!” he exclaimed bitterly.

“He is so young!” thought Dolorez, considering, by the already advancing shades of evening, the noble countenance and delicate white hands of the priest. “Oh! why art thou a Dominican?” she cried aloud, almost involuntary.

“To save you, perhaps,” replied Joseph. “Believe me to be sincere, Donna Dolorez; but do not attempt to penetrate the mysteries of my life. The garb is often times a disguise that conceals the wounds of the heart!”

“Ah! what? you also are unhappy!” cried Dolorez, who felt herself attracted towards the young Dominican by an irresistible sympathy.

“Do not think of me: let us reflect only upon your own position. What do you mean to do now?”

“What God willed!”

“Where will you hide?”

“I must return to the convent of Holy Sisters of Charity.”

“In the name of the Virgin, forbear from that mad—that insane step!” cried Joseph enthusiastically. “The Grand Inquisidor has discovered your retreat; and to-morrow he will proceed to the convent to satisfy himself of the truth of the report that was made to him this afternoon.”

“How did he discover that?” demanded Dolorez: “the Apostle did not mention my name even to the Abbess herself.”

“Poor girl! Thou askest how the Inquisition violates all secrets and all consciences? The Inquisition knows everything; nothing is inviolable with it—not even the tomb!”

“O God! what will become of me?” cried Dolorez, covering her face with her hands: and she gave free vent to the tears which suffocated her.

“Calm yourself, dear sister—calm yourself,” said Joseph, thus affectionately addressing the young lady in a manner warranted by his sacred character, in order to inspire her with confidence, and also because he felt himself drawn towards her by a congeniality of sorrows.

“Yes—it is true, holy father;—even the tomb is not sacred—for we must not weep for the dead,” said Dolorez, pondering upon the previous remark of the young Dominican.

“No,” said Joseph; “the sounds of sobs irritate the tiger, and the thirst of blood becomes more ardent.”

“Speak not in so loud a tone, holy father: we may be overheard.”

“Yes—you are right; every stone around us has a tongue to echo; and each echo can betray! But, tell me, my poor young lady—what will become of you?”

“Reassure yourself—I have an asylum: and on your part, will you promise to save my father?”

“By the soul of that being whom I have most loved! if thy father should perish, it is that I can do nothing for him, and that you yourself could do nothing likewise to save him.”

“Oh! I believe you—I believe you,” exclaimed Dolorez, pressing his hands with grateful ardour. “I believe you! But when can I see you again, holy father?”

“Listen,” said Joseph; “at the extremity of Gipsies’ Alley, in the Triana district, there is a horrible place—a tavern, over the door of which is the sign of a bottle and a loaf—expressive of welcome.⁶⁴ Murderers and robbers congregate there—”

“What do you mean, holy father?” cried Dolorez, in alarm.

“I mean that you must meet me there,” answered Joseph.

“Do I dream? what do you require of me, holy father?” ejaculated the unhappy maiden.

“Thou wast coming to the Inquisidor’s palace this evening,” said Joseph, solemnly: “believe me, that the horrible den to which I have alluded is less dangerous for you than the mansion of Peter Arbuez.”

The eyes of Joseph shone with sombre fire: his cheeks, ordinarily so pale, were animated with a hectic glow; and he seemed to be burning with an internal fever.

Dolorez fancied that he had suddenly become a maniac.

But, suddenly changing his impassioned manner into one of exquisite and winning sweetness, he said, “Go, young lady, and fear not to repair to the spot which Joseph indicates. I will save thee at the price of my life! That tavern is kept by an Alguazil named Joachim, who is devoted to me; and his sister Graciosa, an excellent girl, has already rendered a service, which though it failed—. But of that no matter,” said Joseph, suddenly interrupting himself, for he thought that there was no utility in adding to the luckless maiden’s grief by informing her that her father had already been put to the torture, and that his own scheme of securing John of Avila as a witness in favour of Don Manuel had not been attended with success:—“of that no matter now,” he said. “Those good people will receive you kindly; and when you wish to see me, say to Joachim, ‘I am desirous to consult father Joseph.’ He will inform me without delay. But do not go abroad, save at night—and then in a deep disguise.”

“I will attend to your advice, holy father,” said Dolorez. “But have I nothing to fear?”

“Nothing,” answered Joseph. “No one would ever suspect for a moment that you were to be found in that place. Remember that you must go thither disguised like a poor girl.”

Thus conversing, they reached the Triana bridge; and when they had crossed it, Joseph turned towards Dolorez, saying, “Which is your road?”

“This,” she replied, pointing to the bank of the Guadalquiver.

“And mine lies here,” said Joseph, indicating Gipsies’ Alley. “Adieu, Dolorez; trust to me! But recollect that you must only mention my name before two persons—the Alguazil Joachim and his sister Graciosa. Farewell—be prudent.”

“And you, holy father, have pity upon me!” exclaimed Dolorez.

They then separated, Joseph entering Gipsies’ Alley, and Dolorez proceeding along the margin of the Guadalquiver towards the dwelling of the Apostle John of Avila.

The Maiden’s Sorrows

A prey to that species of hallucination which is common to all those whose life is suddenly chequered with misfortunes, Dolorez speedily accomplished the distance between Triana bridge and the dwelling of the Apostle. In spite of the strange kindness which a member of the Holy Office had manifested towards her, she was not altogether reassured; and she was anxious to find herself once more beneath the protection of her saintly friend. She was the more desirous to reach that hospitable dwelling, inasmuch as she had not seen the Apostle once since she had entered the convent of Holy Sisters, and had not heard any news of Stephen de Vargas. The fact was, that the security of the young maiden had required this total separation from those who were interested in her.

Stephen de Vargas, suspected by the Inquisition in consequence of his enlightened philosophical views and also on account of the glorious struggle of his father against that tremendous power, had only escaped with his life through the intervention of Joseph, who, as the reader is already aware, had frustrated the schemes of the Grand Inquisidor by gaining over the chief of the Gardunos to his own views of mercy.

Ignorant of the destiny of him whom she loved, Dolorez experienced profound alarm.

“Is he still free?” she asked herself in an access of terror; and this dread uncertainty accelerated the beatings of her heart, and made her redouble her pace.

When she reached the Apostle’s residence, she was surprised not to see the light of the lamp, which usually shone brightly through the windows at that hour. Nevertheless the garden gate was open and yielded easily. Dolorez hastened to the door and knocked; but no one answered her.

“O heavens! he is not here!” ejaculated Dolorez, nearly sinking with alarm.

Again she knocked; but vainly—for no one responded to her summons. Dolorez hastily traversed the garden in all directions. Her search was useless: the Apostle was evidently absent! But how could she learn whither he was gone, or when he would return? What could she do? She could not return to the convent: danger would there overtake her. She dared not apply to any of her former friends in the city for an asylum: who would dare the vengeance of the Inquisidor to please her? Moreover, would not every door be closed against the daughter of a man accused of heresy?

She certainly had the tavern as a last resource; but the description which Joseph had given of it deprived her of all courage to seek that refuge. She preferred to pass the night in the garden.

The weather was chilly, although the spring was then in its prime: the proximity of the river moreover rendered the spot damp. Dolorez was lightly clad: her black silk gown and her mantilla of costly lace were but a slender protection against the cold.

The trees were covered with leaves and blossoms; and the thick grass formed a carpet beneath them. Dolorez placed herself under an enormous banana tree: she allowed her long hair to flow over her shoulders like a cloak, and twisted her mantilla around her head: then, raising her eyes to heaven, she seated herself upon the fresh grass.

She hoped that the Apostle would speedily arrive: but hour after hour passed away; and the poor maiden could not sleep. The damps rose and chilled her limbs; and she shivered with cold and with suspense.

Near her the waters of the Guadalquiver rolled their peaceful waves with unvarying and monotonous sound: at times the step of some wayfarer in the road met her ears; but, alas! that step passed onward—it was not that of the Apostle! Then Dolorez could with difficulty restrain her tears.

Towards morning, overcome with fatigue, she slept. Then a gentle heat seemed to warm her chilled limbs; and she thought that she was in a fairy palace. Beneath a blue vaulted roof,—the dome of a splendid edifice,—an immense golden chandelier, lighted by the hands of genii, rose slowly towards the top of the cupola, lifted by invisible beings; and, as it gradually ascended, it appeared to increase in extent, and in heat, until it filled the palace with a whirlwind of light and flame. But scarcely had the golden chandelier touched the cupola, when that magnificent palace, peopled with transparent beings of exquisite beauty, suddenly changed its aspect. The splendid furniture which filled it, and the flowers which decorated it, disappeared: the wings of the sylphids and the genii crumbled into golden dust; their charming figures grew deformed, and assumed a transparence of fiery red; and a fearful torrent of flame swept through the palace. Dolorez endeavoured to fly from the death which appeared to menace her; but those monsters ranged themselves around her in order to prevent her egress;⁶⁵ and one of them placed above her head an immense burning mirror, beneath which she seemed to be scorched as if she were in a furnace.

Roused by these imaginary sufferings, Dolorez opened her eyes. The sun, burning and bright, had risen high in the heavens; and his golden rays, piercing the thick shade of the foliage, poured upon the countenance of the young damsel.

She had slept a long time: it was past ten o’clock in the morning. Astonished, she cast her eyes around her in order to collect her scattered ideas—those ideas that were interrupted by her slumber: and the events of the preceding day gradually recurring to her thoughts, she was overtaken by a sense of deep and bitter discouragement. She was strong in mind, and noble—therefore brave—in heart; but she was too young, too little accustomed to the vicissitudes of life, to be enabled to endure her present weight of misery with patience:—there was more of resignation than of energy in her courage;—she was only really strong in the presence of danger. So is it with all women of a superior tone of mind: their courage is only an eternal combat of reason against the heart, save in those matters wherein the heart is interested:—then it exceeds in courage the courage of man!

Dolorez turned her eyes towards the house: the same air of quiet and solitude, which had struck her on the preceding evening, still reigned throughout. To reassure herself, however, on this point, Dolorez, having arranged her hair, and thrown her mantilla over her head and shoulders, advanced towards the door, and knocked loudly. But there was no response!

Dolorez was alone—abandoned—without an asylum—without bread, and she dared not venture into the streets of Seville in the day-time, for she was afraid of being recognised and arrested. Nevertheless, she was decided to repair in the evening to the tavern: that was her last resource; and she now abandoned herself to Providence!

But, in order not to be surprised by the sbirri, she resolved to remain concealed in the Apostle’s garden until the shades of night should cover the earth. The garden was in many places planted with sugar canes: and the early fruits were already ripe on the trees. By these means Dolorez was enabled to recruit her strength; and the lympid water of the Guadalquiver slaked her thirst.

During the day many passengers past that way: she remained well concealed amongst the thick foliage; and no one suspected that the brilliant Dolorez Argoso, the daughter of one of the richest nobles in Spain, was there, a friendless, houseless, forlorn maiden!

At length the sun descended towards the western horizon: that was the hour when every one in Spain indulged in the siesta—or what we should vulgarly term in England “a nap.” Dolorez thought that she might now leave her hiding-place without fear. Joseph had recommended her not to issue abroad, save in disguise; and she determined in the first instance to procure for herself a suitable attire for that purpose. She had no money; but her silk dress was of the finest material; and her mantilla was of the most exquisite lace. She thought of proceeding to the Rastro, or general market of the lower orders,⁶⁶ and there exchanging those costly garments against others of a far humbler kind. Accordingly, quitting the garden, and covering her countenance with the rich border of her mantilla, she directed her steps towards the Rastro.

But, as she passed along the banks of the Guadalquiver, she beheld the formidable towers and grand buildings of the Inquisition rising high in the air at a short distance on the opposite side of the stream; and from the windows hung the ghastly corpses of those miserable victims who had expired under the torture. She shuddered:—Oh! what fate was reserved for her father—her well-beloved sire?

At the extremity of Gipsies Alley, there existed at that time a large irregular open space, on one side of which were the slaughter-houses of the city; and in the middle were stalls or booths for the sale of all kinds of miscellaneous articles suitable for the poor. The most nauseous odour prevailed throughout that detestable and foul neighbourhood; and yet it was there that the beautiful Dolorez was now threading her way.

She revolted in disgust from the horrible aspect of that place; and yet a cruel necessity compelled her to proceed!

“Senorita,” said a woman who kept one of the stalls, “buy this beautiful collar of pearls, it will suit well thy fair skin.”

“No—buy nothing there, lady,” exclaimed another: “try my stall. Here is a paternoster, blessed by our holy father the Pope.”

“Here is Flemish lace, senora,” cried a third, “which will suit thee better.”

“Senora, senora, behold this charmed ring, which is a talisman against misfortune.”

But Dolorez passed rapidly onwards, until she saw a stall where female garments were sold; and there she stopped.

“Now, fair lady,” ejaculated the woman who owned this magazine of varieties, “what can I serve you with? You cannot want clothes; but I have a beautiful crucifix, which I purchased from a holy man who required money wherewith to succour a poor wretch that fell in his way. You need not be afraid to touch that crucifix, senorita; it came to me direct from the hands of the Apostle.”

“The Apostle!” ejaculated Dolorez: “do you know him?”

“Holy Virgin! who does not know the Apostle? and who does not bless him?”

“Do you know where he is at this present moment?” demanded Dolorez.

“No,” answered the woman: “he is like God—invisible; but one always finds him when one wants him.”

Disappointed in the hope which she had suddenly formed, Dolorez now thought of making an exchange of garments as quickly as possible.

“I do not require a crucifix,” she said, timidly; “I have not money to purchase it, but I stand in need of a complete dress of a daughter of the people.”

“In exchange for yours?” said the woman, whose eyes glistened with cupidity.

“Yes,” replied Dolorez.

“And your mantilla also?”

“And my mantilla shall also be yours.”

“Then the exchange is soon made, lady. Here is a serge dress, and here is a mantilla of silk. You can step into the booth, behind the curtain, and change your clothes.”

This was speedily done; and when Dolorez issued forth from the rude chamber where she had disguised herself, the woman said, “Pray give me your custom another time, Miss.”

Dolorez made no reply, but hastened towards the tavern in Gipsies Alley.