“Drink, beloved child of my sainted sister; there is life and health in the draught.”

Hastily swallowing it, Marie gazed wildly in his face.—­The habiliments of the familiar had been changed for those of a Benedictine monk; his cowl thrown back, and the now well remembered countenance of her uncle Julien was beaming over her.  In an instant, the arm she could still use was thrown round him, and her head buried in his bosom; every pulse throbbing with the inexpressible joy of finding, when most desolate, one relative to love and save her still.  Julien left not his work of healing and of security incomplete; gradually he decreased, by the constant application of linen bathed in some cooling fluid, the scorching fire which still seemed to burn within the maimed and shrivelled limb; parted the thick masses of dishevelled hair from her burning temples, and bathed them with some cooling and reviving essence; gently removed the sable robes, and replaced them, with the dress of a young novice which he had provided; concealed her hair beneath the white linen hood, and then, administering a potion which he knew would produce deep and refreshing sleep, and so effectually calm the fevered nerves, she sunk down on the soft moss and heath which formed her couch, and slept calmly and sweetly as an infant for many hours.

Julien Morales had entered Segovia in his monkish garb, as was frequently his custom, on the evening of the trial.—­The excitement of the whole city naturally called forth his queries as to its cause; and the information imparted—­the murder of Don Ferdinand, and incomprehensible avowal of Judaism on the part of his niece—­demanded a powerful exercise of self-control to prevent, by a betrayal of unusual grief and horror, his near relationship to both parties.  Hovering about the palace, he heard of Isabella’s merciful intentions towards Marie; and feeling that his presence might only agitate, and could in nothing avail her, he had resolved on leaving the city without seeing her, when her mysterious disappearance excited all Segovia anew.

Julien Morales alone, perhaps, amidst hundreds, in his own mind solved the mystery at once.  Well did he know tire existence of the secret Inquisition.  As we narrated in one of our early chapters, the fate of his father had so fixed itself upon his mind, that he had bound himself by a secret, though solemn oath, as his avenger.  To accomplish this fully, he had actually spent ten years of his life as familiar in the Inquisition.  The fate of Don Luis’s predecessor had been plunged in the deepest mystery.  Some whispered his death was by a subtle poison; others, that his murderer had sought him in the dead of night, and, instead of treacherously dealing the blow, had awakened him, and bade him confess his crimes—­one especially; and acknowledge that if the mandate of the Eternal, “Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed,” were still to govern man, his death was but an act of justice