of the crowd, threw a strong mass of light upon Inez, and
the sight of so beautiful a being, without mantilla or veil, looking
so bewildered, and conducted by men who seemed to take no
gratification in the surrounding gayety, occasioned expressions of
curiosity. One of the ballad-singers approached, and striking her
guitar with peculiar earnestness, began to sing a doleful air, full of
sinister forebodings. Inez started with surprise. It was the same
ballad-singer that had addressed her in the garden of the Generaliffe.

It was the same air that she had then sung. It spoke of impending
dangers; they seemed, indeed, to be thickening around her. She was
anxious to speak with the girl, and to ascertain whether she really
had a knowledge of any definite evil that was threatening her; but, as
she attempted to address her, the mule, on which she rode, was
suddenly seized, and led forcibly through the throng by one of her
conductors, while she saw another addressing menacing words to the
ballad-singer. The latter raised her hand with a warning gesture, as
Inez lost sight of her.

While she was yet lost in perplexity, caused by this singular
occurrence, they stopped at the gate of a large mansion. One of her
attendants knocked, the door was opened, and they entered a paved
court. "Where are we?" demanded Inez, with anxiety. "At the house of a
friend, senora," replied the man. "Ascend this staircase with me, and
in a moment you will meet your father."

They ascended a staircase, that led to a suite of splendid apartments.
They passed through several, until they came to an inner chamber. The
door opened--some one approached; but what was her terror at
perceiving, not her father, but Don Ambrosio!

The men who had seized upon the alchymist had, at least, been more
honest in their professions. They were, indeed, familiars of the
inquisition. He was conducted in silence to the gloomy prison of that
horrible tribunal. It was a mansion whose very aspect withered joy,
and almost shut out hope. It was one of those hideous abodes which the
bad passions of men conjure up in this fair world, to rival the
fancied dens of demons and the accursed.

Day after day went heavily by, without anything to mark the lapse of
time, but the decline and reappearance of the light that feebly
glimmered through the narrow window of the dungeon in which the
unfortunate alchymist was buried rather than confined. His mind was
harassed with uncertainties