ntains, which they reached before the Christinos had found and
passed the distant ford. When the dragoons arrived at the foot of the
sierra, Don Baltasar and his men were already out of sight amongst its
steep and dangerous paths; and Herrera, compelled to abandon the
pursuit, returned mournfully to the river bank, to seek, and, if it
could be found, to convey to Vittoria the body of Count Villabuena.

Leaving Herrera to his mournful duty, let us conduct our readers to an
apartment in a house on the outskirts of the town of Segura. The
interior, which was plainly but commodiously furnished, indicated
feminine tastes and occupations, breathing that perfume of elegance
which the presence of woman ever communicates. Vases of flowers decked
the sideboards; a few books, the works of the best Spanish poets, lay
upon the table; and a guitar, unstrung, it is true, was suspended
against the wall. Two persons occupied the apartment. One of them, who
was seated on a low stool at its inner extremity, near to the folding
doors that separated it from an antichamber, was a robust, ruddy-cheeked
Navarrese girl, whose abundant hair, of which the jet blackness atoned
for the coarse texture, hung in a thick plait down her back, and whose
large red fingers were busily engaged in knitting. At the other end of
the apartment, close to the open window, through which she intently
gazed, was a being of very different mould. On a high-backed elbow-chair
of ancient oak sat Rita de Villabuena, pensive and anxious, her fair
face and golden tresses seeming fairer and brighter from the contrast
with the dark quaint carving against which they reposed. Her cheek was
perhaps paler than when first we made her acquaintance; anxiety for her
lover, and, latterly, for her father, was the cause; but her beauty had
lost nothing by the change, for the shade of melancholy upon her
features seemed, by adding to the interest her expressive countenance
inspired, rather to enhance than diminish its charm. She was now
watching for her father, who had led her to expect his return at about
this time. Over the stone balustrade of her balcony, she commanded a
view of the road along which he was to approach; and upon the farthest
visible point of it, where a bend round a group of trees concealed its
continuation, her gaze was riveted. Although the Count had assured her,
before his departure, that his journey was unattended with risk, Rita's
arrival upon the scene of war was