unmasked--your crimes known. Repent, and, if
possible, atone them."

Baltasar recoiled with well-feigned astonishment.

"My crimes!" he indignantly repeated. "What is this, Count? Who accuses
me--and of what?"

Without replying, Count Villabuena looked at Herrera, who approached the
door and pronounced a name, at which Baltasar, in spite of his
self-command, started and grew pale. Paco entered the apartment.

"Here," said the Count, "is one witness of your villany."

"And here, another," said Herrera, lifting a handkerchief from the table
and exhibiting Baltasar's pistols.

The Carlist colonel staggered back as if he had received a blow. All
that he had found inexplicable in the events of the last few days was
now explained; he saw that he was entrapped, and that his offences were
brought home to him. With a look of deadly hate at Herrera and the
Count, he folded his arms and stood doggedly silent.

In few words Herrera now informed Baltasar of the power vested in him by
Cordova, and stated the condition on which he might yet escape the
punishment of his crimes. These, however, Baltasar obstinately persisted
in denying; nor were any threats sufficient to extort confession, or to
prevail with him to write the desired letter to the abbess. Assuming the
high tone of injured innocence, he scoffed at the evidence brought
against him, and swore solemnly and deliberately that he was ignorant of
Rita's captivity. Paco, he said, as a deserter, was undeserving of
credit, and had forged an absurd tale in hopes of reward. As to the
pistols, nothing was easier than to cast a bullet to fit them, and he
vehemently accused Herrera of having fabricated the account of his
firing at his cousin. A violent and passionate discussion ensued, highly
agitating to the Conde in his then weak and feverish state. Finding, at
length, that all Herrera's menaces had no effect on Baltasar's sullen
obstinacy, Count Villabuena, his heart wrung by suspense and anxiety,
condescended to entreaty, and strove to touch some chord of good
feeling, if, indeed, any still existed, in the bosom of his unworthy
kinsman.

"Hear me, Baltasar," he said; "I would fain think the best I can of you.
Let us waive the attempt on my life; no more shall be said of it. Gladly
will I persuade myself that we have been mistaken; that my wound was the
result of a chance shot either from you or your followers. Irregularly
armed, one of them may have had pistols of the same