ich she had covered her
face fell off and disclosed a countenance of incomparable and marvellous
beauty, but pale and terrified; for she kept turning her eyes, everywhere
she could direct her gaze, with an eagerness that made her look as if she
had lost her senses, and so marked that it excited the pity of Dorothea
and all who beheld her, though they knew not what caused it. The
gentleman grasped her firmly by the shoulders, and being so fully
occupied with holding her back, he was unable to put a hand to his veil
which was falling off, as it did at length entirely, and Dorothea, who
was holding the lady in her arms, raising her eyes saw that he who
likewise held her was her husband, Don Fernando. The instant she
recognised him, with a prolonged plaintive cry drawn from the depths of
her heart, she fell backwards fainting, and but for the barber being
close by to catch her in his arms, she would have fallen completely to
the ground. The curate at once hastened to uncover her face and throw
water on it, and as he did so Don Fernando, for he it was who held the
other in his arms, recognised her and stood as if death-stricken by the
sight; not, however, relaxing his grasp of Luscinda, for it was she that
was struggling to release herself from his hold, having recognised
Cardenio by his voice, as he had recognised her. Cardenio also heard
Dorothea's cry as she fell fainting, and imagining that it came from his
Luscinda burst forth in terror from the room, and the first thing he saw
was Don Fernando with Luscinda in his arms. Don Fernando, too, knew
Cardenio at once; and all three, Luscinda, Cardenio, and Dorothea, stood
in silent amazement scarcely knowing what had happened to them.

They gazed at one another without speaking, Dorothea at Don Fernando, Don
Fernando at Cardenio, Cardenio at Luscinda, and Luscinda at Cardenio. The
first to break silence was Luscinda, who thus addressed Don Fernando:
"Leave me, Senor Don Fernando, for the sake of what you owe to yourself;
if no other reason will induce you, leave me to cling to the wall of
which I am the ivy, to the support from which neither your importunities,
nor your threats, nor your promises, nor your gifts have been able to
detach me. See how Heaven, by ways strange and hidden from our sight, has
brought me face to face with my true husband; and well you know by
dear-bought experience that death alone will be able to efface him from
my memory. May this plain declaration,