Delirium ensued, and wildly the unfortunate girl raved of the past—­of her former love, her hopelessness, her utter desolation.  The dreamless sleep of exhaustion followed this temporary madness:  long she lay in the stupor so near akin to death, and now, consciousness restored, she awaited in silence her hour!  In vain the kind-hearted Senora entreated her to see a priest—­steadfastly she refused.  At length Madame Berara assumed the responsibility of calling in her own confessor, and silently quitting the room, went in quest of him.  Inez suspected the cause of her usual absence, and too feeble to concentrate her thoughts, turned her face to the wall, and wearily closed her eyes.  Yet one hand felt along the cover and beneath the pillow.  For what was she searching on the bed of death?  The thin fingers rested on a small and well-worn Bible, and a tiny package, wrapped in paper and carefully tied.  The sacred volume was feebly pushed beneath her head, and mechanically she undid the knot, and drew forth a glossy lock of black hair.  Wearily she pressed it to her lips several times, and again folding it away, her hands sank powerless upon her bosom.

Inez, Inez! are there none near to clasp thy cold hand and tenderly lift thy weary head?  Alas, thou desolate one, Thou art left alone in the bitter hour of thy trial!  When all things seem shrouded in impenetrable gloom, and thy darkened soul turns from the tortured past to the dim, uncertain future, no loved one is nigh to dash away the gathering mists, and point to that celestial home “of which it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive.”

Oh, Inez! thy short life has been dark and tempestuous; it is hard that a calm and peaceful end is denied to thee, thou suffering one, longing for rest, oblivion of the past, utter unconsciousness!  Struggle on, proud maiden! but a few moments, and thy tones will vibrate no longer, thy firm step cease forever, and thy memory pass away like the shadows of night!

Senora Berara re-entered the silent chamber, accompanied by a priest, clad in the vestments of his order.  They approached the bed, and the aged dame, bending over Inez, whispered audibly: 

“I could not find my own Padre, but I bring one who will confess and absolve thee?  Make haste to prepare for heaven.”

“I want neither confession nor absolution!  Begone! and let me die in peace,” she answered, without unclosing the lids, which lay so heavily upon the sunken eyes.

“Leave us together!  I will call thee when thou art wanted,” whispered he of the Order of Jesus.  The matron immediately withdrew, repeating an Ave Maria; and they were left alone.

“Inez!”

A shudder crept through the wasted form, and, with a start, she looked upon the face of the intruder.  Even in death, hatred was strong; the dim eye flashed, and the cold, damp lips wreathed into a smile of utter scorn: 

“Well, Padre! you have tracked me at last.  It is a pity, though, you had not set out one day later; you would have altogether missed your prey!  But I am content, for I am far beyond your reach!” She gasped for breath, yet ghastly was the mocking smile which lit up the face.