n honest
man is not too dear a purchase for your life, accept my hand, and you
are saved."

"Who are you?" cried Magdalena, intense curiosity mastering her even
in that moment.

"I am the executioner of Madrid!" replied the stranger.

Magdalena covered her face with her hands, and uttered a low cry of
horror.

"I am the executioner of Madrid!" repeated he. "I have never committed
crime in my life, though my blade has been reddened with the blood of
my fellow-creatures. Yet no man takes my hand,--no man breaks bread or
drinks wine with me. I, the dread minister of justice, a necessity of
society, like the soldier on the rampart, or the priest at the altar,
am a being lonely, abhorred, accursed. Yet I have the feelings, the
passions of other men. But what maiden would listen to the suit of
one like me? What father would give his daughter to my arms? None,
none! And, therefore, the state decrees that when the executioner
would wed, he must take to his arms a woman doomed to death. I loved
you, Magdalena, hopelessly, ere I dreamed the hour would ever arrive
when I might hope to claim you. That hour has now come. I offer you
your life and my hand. You must be my bride, or my victim!"

"Your victim! your victim!" cried Magdalena. "Death a thousand times,
though a thousand times undeserved, rather than your foul embrace!"

"You have chosen. Your blood be on your own head!" cried the
executioner, stamping his foot. "You die unshriven and unblessed!"

"At least, abhorred ruffian," cried Magdalena, "I have some little
time for preparation! The hour has not yet arrived."

"Has it not?" cried the executioner. "Behold yon clock!"

And as her eyes were strained upon the dial, he strode out of the
cell, and seizing the hands, advanced them to the hour of noon. Then,
at a signal from his hand, the prison bell began to toll.

"Mercy; mercy!" cried Magdalena, as he rejoined her. "Slay me not
before my time!"

But the hand of the ruffian already grasped her arm, and he dragged
her forth into the corridor.

At that moment, however, a loud shout arose, and a group of officials,
escorting the goldsmith and Julio, waving a paper in his hand, rushed
breathlessly along the passage.

"Saved, saved!" cried Magdalena. "Hither, hither, father, Julio!"

The executioner had wreathed his hand in her dark, flowing tresses;
already his dreadful weapon was brandished in the air, when it was
crossed by the bright Toledo blade of the youn