calibre as yours.
But my daughter, my dear poor Rita! Restore her, Baltasar, and let all
be forgotten. On that condition you have Herrera's word and mine that
you shall be the very first prisoner exchanged. Oh, Baltasar, do not
drive to despair an old man, broken-hearted already! Think of days gone
by, never to return; of your childhood, when I have so often held you on
my knee; of your youth, when, in spite of difference of age, we were for
a while companions and friends. Think of all this, Baltasar, and return
not evil for good. Give me back my Rita, and receive my forgiveness, my
thanks, my heartfelt gratitude. Your arm shall be stronger in the fight,
your head calmer on your pillow, for the righteous and charitable act."

In the excitement of this fervent address, the Count had risen from his
chair, and stood with arms extended, and eyes fixed upon the gloomy
countenance of Baltasar. His lips quivering with emotion, his trembling
voice, pale features, and long grey hair; above all, the subject of his
entreaties--a father pleading for the restoration of his only child--and
his passionate manner of urging them, rendered the scene inexpressibly
touching, and must have moved any but a heart of adamant. Such a one was
that of Baltasar, who stood with bent brow and a sneer upon his lip,
cold, contemptuous, and relentless.

"Brave talk!" he exclaimed, in his harshest and most brutal tones;
"brave talk, indeed, of old friendship and the like! Was it friendship
that made you forget me in Ferdinand's time, when your interest might
have advanced me? When you wanted me, I heard of you, but not before;
and better for me had we never met. You lured me to join a hopeless
cause, by promises broken as soon as claimed. You have ruined my
prospects, treated me with studied scorn, and now you talk, forsooth, of
old kindness and friendship, and sue--to me in chains--for mercy! It has
come to that! The haughty Count Villabuena craves mercy at the hands of
a prisoner! I answer you, I know nothing of your daughter; but I also
tell you, Count, that if all yonder fellow's lies were truth, and I held
the keys of her prison, I would sooner wear out my life in the foulest
dungeon than give them up to you. But, pshaw! she thinks little enough
about you. She has found her protector, I'll warrant you. There are
smart fellows and comely amongst the king's followers, and she won't
have wanted for consolation."

It seemed as if Baltasar's defencele