he) _is not the Continuation of my
Life; I should have more care of it if I loved you less: but--_ She
could not proceed; and the Prince, excessively afflicted at her trouble,
sigh'd sadly, without making her any answer, which redoubled her Grief.
Spite then began to mix it self; and all things persuading the Princess
that they made a Sacrifice of her, she would enter into no Explanation
with her Husband, but suffered him to go away without saying any thing
to him.

Nothing is more capable of troubling our Reason, and consuming our
Health, than secret Notions of Jealousy in Solitude.

_Constantia_, who us'd to open her Heart freely to _Agnes_, now
believing she had deceiv'd her, abandon'd her self so absolutely to
Grief, that she was ready to sink under it; she immediately fell sick
with the violence of it, and all the Court was concern'd at this
Misfortune: _Don Pedro_ was truly afflicted at it, but _Agnes_ more than
all the World beside. _Constantia's_ Coldness towards her, made her
continually sigh; and her Distemper created merely by fancy, caus'd her
to reflect on every thing that offer'd it self to her Memory: so that at
last she began even to fear her self, and to reproach her self for what
the Princess suffer'd.

But the Distemper began to be such, that they fear'd _Constantia's_
Death, and she her self began to feel the Approaches of it. This Thought
did not at all disquiet her: she look'd on Death as the only relief from
all her Torments; and regarded the Despair of all that approach'd her
without the least concern.

The King, who lov'd her tenderly, and who knew her Virtue, was
infinitely mov'd at the Extremity she was in. And _Don Alvaro_, who lost
not the least Occasion of making him understand that it was Jealousy
which was the cause of _Constantia's_ Distemper, did but too much
incense him against Criminals, worthy of Compassion. The King was not of
a Temper to conceal his Anger long: 'You give fine Examples, (said he to
the Prince) and such as will render your Memory illustrious! The Death
of _Constantia_ (of which you are only to be accus'd) is the unhappy
Fruit of your guilty Passion. Fear Heaven after this: and behold your
self as a Monster that does not deserve to see the Light. If the
Interest you have in my Blood did not plead for you, what ought you not
to fear from my just Resentment? But what must not imprudent _Agnes_, to
whom nothing ties me, expect from my hands? If _Constantia_ dies, she