“I have heard you, Don Luis,” he said, so calmly, as Garcia ceased, that the latter started.  “If there be truth in this strange tale, I thank you for imparting it:  if it be false—­if you have dared pollute my ears with one word that has no foundation, cross not my path again, lest I be tempted to turn and crush you as I would a loathsome reptile, who in very wantonness has stung me.”

He turned from him rapidly, traversed the brief space, and disappeared within his house.  Don Luis looked after him with a low, fiendish laugh, and plunged once more into the gardens.

“Is the Senora within?” Inquired Don Ferdinand, encountering his wife’s favorite attendant at the entrance of Marie’s private suit of rooms; and though his cheek was somewhat pale, his voice was firm as usual.  The reply was in the negative; the Senora was in the gardens.  “Alone?  Why are you not with her as usual, Manuella?”

“I was with her, my Lord; she only dismissed me ten minutes ago.”

Without rejoinder, Don Ferdinand turned in the direction she had pointed out.  It was a lovely walk, in the most shaded parts of the extensive grounds, walled by alternate orange and lemon trees; some with the blossom, germ, and fruit all on one tree; others full of the paly fruit; and others, again, as wreathed with snow, from the profusion of odoriferous flowers.  An abrupt curve led to a grassy plot, from which a sparkling fountain sent up its glistening showers, before a luxurious bower, which Morales’s tender care had formed of large and healthy slips, cut from the trees of the Vale of Cedars, and flowery shrubs and variegated moss from the same spot; and there he had introduced his Marie, calling it by the fond name of “Home!” As he neared the curve, voices struck on his ear—­Marie’s and another’s.  She was not alone! and that other!—­could it be?—­nay, it was—­there was neither doubt nor hesitation—­it was his—­his—­against whom Don Luis had warned him.  Was it for this Marie had dismissed her attendant?  It could not be; it was mere accident, and Don Ferdinand tried to go forward to address them as usual; but the effort even for him was too much, and he sunk down on a rustic bench near him, and burying his head in his hands, tried to shut out sight and sound till power and calmness would return.  But though he could close his eyes on all outward things, he could not deaden hearing; and words reached him which, while he strove not to hear, seemed to be traced by a dagger’s point upon his heart, and from very physical agony deprived him of strength to move.

“And thou wilt give me no reason—­idle, weak as it must be—­thou wilt refuse me even an excuse for thy perjury?” rung on the still air, in the excited tones of Arthur Stanley.  “Wealth, beauty, power—­ay, they are said to be omnipotent with thy false sex; but little did I dream that it could be so with thee; and in six short months—­nay, less time, thou couldst conquer love, forget past vows, leap over the obstacle thou saidst must part us, and wed another!  ’Twas short space to do so much!” And he laughed a bitter, jibing laugh.