commands of this illustrious lady, the widow of my
kindest patron and friend. I went, prepared for tears, for outcries,
perhaps for violent resistance, for the ardent and high-strung nature of
my beloved Senorita Margarita is well known to me. Figure to yourself,
honoured senor, my surprise at finding this charming damsel calm,
composed, even smiling. She greeted me with her accustomed tenderness; a
more enchanting personality does not, I am assured, adorn the earth than
that of this lovely child. She bade me have no alarms for her, that all
was well, she was reconciled to her lot; indeed, she added that she
could not now wish things otherwise. Amazed, but also enchanted with her
docility and sweetness, I gave her an old man's blessing, and my prayers
that the rigour of the holy Sisters might be softened toward her tender
and high-spirited youth. She replied that she had no fear of the
Sisters; that in truth she thought they would give her no trouble of
any kind. I was ravished with this assurance, having, I may confess it
to you, senor, dreaded the contact between the senorita and the holy
Mother, a woman of incredible force and piety. But I must hasten my
narrative. At seven o'clock last evening two volantes were in readiness
at the door of the Montfort mansion. The first was driven by the
senora's own man, the second by Pasquale, a negro devoted since
childhood to the senorita. The senora would have placed her daughter in
the first of these vehicles; but no! the senorita sprang lightly into
the second volante, followed by her maid, a young person, also tenderly
attached to her. Interposing myself to produce calm, I persuade the
admirable senora to take the position that etiquette commanded, in the
first carriage. It is done; I seat myself by her side; procession is
made. The way to the convent of the White Sisters, senor, is a steep
and rugged one; on either hand are savage passes, are mountains of
precipitation. To conceive what happened, how is it possible? When we
reached the convent gate, the second volante was empty. Assassinated
with terror, I make demand of Pasquale; he admits that he may have slept
during the long traject up the hill. He swears that he heard no sound,
that no word was addressed to him. He calls the saints to witness that
he is innocent; the saints make no reply, but that is not uncommon. I
search; I rend the air with my cries; alone silence responds to me. The
senora is carried fainting into th