What a night was it to Inez!—­her heart already harassed and almost broken, by repeated and protracted anxieties; her strength wasted and enfeebled.  On every side, horrors awaited her; her father’s death, her own dishonour—­there seemed no escape from misery or perdition.  “Is there no relief from man—­no pity in heaven?” exclaimed she.  “What —­what have we done, that we should be thus wretched?”

As the dawn approached, the fever of her mind arose to agony; a thousand times did she try the doors and windows of her apartment, in the desperate hope of escaping.  Alas! with all the splendour of her prison, it was too faithfully secured for her weak hands to work deliverance.  Like a poor bird, that beats its wings against its gilded cage, until it sinks panting in despair, so she threw herself on the floor in hopeless anguish.  Her blood grew hot in her veins, her tongue was parched, her temples throbbed with violence, she gasped rather than breathed; it seemed as if her brain was on fire.  “Blessed Virgin!” exclaimed she, clasping her hands and turning up her strained eyes, “look down with pity, and support me in this dreadful hour!”

Just as the day began to dawn, she heard a key turn softly in the door of her apartment.  She dreaded lest it should be Don Ambrosio; and the very thought of him gave her a sickening pang.  It was a female clad in a rustic dress, with her face concealed by her mantilla.  She stepped silently into the room, looked cautiously round, and then, uncovering her face, revealed the well-known features of the ballad-singer.  Inez uttered an exclamation of surprise, almost of joy.  The unknown started back, pressed her finger on her lips enjoining silence, and beckoned her to follow.  She hastily wrapped herself in her veil, and obeyed.  They passed with quick, but noiseless steps through an antechamber, across a spacious hall, and along a corridor; all was silent; the household was yet locked in sleep.  They came to a door, to which the unknown applied a key.  Inez’s heart misgave her; she knew not but some new treachery was menacing her; she laid her cold hand on the stranger’s arm:  “Whither are you leading me?” said she.  “To liberty,” replied the other, in a whisper.

“Do you know the passages about this mansion?”

“But too well!” replied the girl, with a melancholy shake of the head.  There was an expression of sad veracity in her countenance, that was not to be distrusted.  The door opened on a small terrace, which was overlooked by several windows of the mansion.

“We must move across this quickly,” said the girl, “or we may be observed.”

They glided over it, as if scarce touching the ground.  A flight of steps led down into the garden; a wicket at the bottom was readily unbolted:  they passed with breathless velocity along one of the alleys, still in sight of the mansion, in which, however, no person appeared to be stirring.  At length they came to a low private door in the wall, partly hidden by a fig-tree.  It was secured by rusty bolts, that refused to yield to their feeble efforts.