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She was a woman who, perhaps, would scarcely be commiserated in this position. She was not, like most of her countrywomen, soft, indolent, and amiable, a creature who loves rather than commands. A searching gaze into the depths of her dark eyes would discover fires which seldom leapt within the glance of a casual observer. Seemingly cold, impassive, grave beyond her years, Doña Isabel wielded a power as absolute over her domains as ever did veritable queen over the most devoted subjects. Yet this woman, who was so rich, so powerful, upon the eve on which her bounty had welcomed an unknown pauper to her roof, was less at ease, more harassed, more burdened, as she stood upon her balcony looking out upon the vast extent and variety of her possessions, than the poorest peon who daily toiled in her fields.

Her daughters were asleep, or reading with their governess; her servants were scattered, completing the tasks of the day; behind her stretched the long range of apartments throughout which, with little attention to order, were scattered rich articles of furniture,—a grand piano, glittering mirrors, valuable paintings, bedsteads of bronze hung with rich curtains, services of silver for toilette and table,—indiscriminately mixed with rush-bottomed chairs of home manufacture, tawdry wooden images of saints, waxen and clay figures more grotesque than beautiful, the whole being faintly illumined by the flicker of a few candles in rich silver holders, black from neglect. Doña Isabel stood with her back to them all, caring for nothing, heeding nothing, not even the sense of utter weariness and desolation which presently like a chill swept through the vast apartments, and issuing thence, enwrapped her as with a garment.