g his
eyes with his hand, and musing painfully on the events of the preceding
two years. His estates confiscated, his health destroyed, separated from
his only surviving child, and her fate unknown to him, himself a
prisoner--such were the results of his blind devotion to a worthless
prince and a falling principle. Great, indeed, was the change which
physical and mental suffering had wrought in the Conde de Villabuena.
His form was bowed and emaciated, his cheek had lost its healthful
tinge; his hair, in which, but a short three months previously, only a
few silver threads were perceptible, telling of the decline of life
rather than of its decay, now fell in grey locks around his sunken
temples. For himself individually, the Count grieved not; he had done
what he deemed his duty, and his conscience was at rest; but he mourned
the ingratitude of his king and party, and, above all, his heart bled at
the thought of his daughter, abandoned friendless and helpless amongst
strangers. The news of the preceding day's battle had reached him, but
he took small interest in it; he foresaw that many more such fights
would be fought, and countless lives be sacrificed, before peace would
revisit his unhappy and distracted country.

From these gloomy reflections Count Villabuena was roused by the sudden
opening of his door. The next instant his hand was clasped in that of
Luis Herrera, who, hot with riding, dusty and travel-stained, gazed
anxiously on the pale, careworn countenance of his old and venerable
friend. On beholding Luis, a beam of pleasure lighted up the features of
the Count.

"You at least are safe!" was his first exclamation. "Thank Heaven for
that! I should indeed be forlorn if aught happened to you."

There was an accent of unusually deep melancholy in the Count's voice
which struck Herrera, and caused him for an instant to imagine that he
had already received intelligence of his cousin's treachery, and of
Rita's captivity. Convinced, however, by a moment's reflection, that it
was impossible, he dreaded some new misfortune.

"You are dejected, sir," he said. "What has again occurred to grieve
you?--The reverse sustained by your friends"--

"No, no," interrupted the Count, with a bitter smile--"not so. My
friends, as you call them, seem little desirous of my poor sympathy.
Luis, read this."

As he spoke, he held out the letter received from the secretary of Don
Carlos.

"It was wisely said," continued the Count