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As Doña Feliz touched the latch, the door was opened by the affrighted governess, who had anticipated the entrance of Doña Isabel. The respite unnerved her, and she threw herself half fainting in a chair, as Herlinda seized the new-comer by the shoulders, gasping forth, “Feliz, Feliz, tell me! tell me it is not true! He is not dead! dead! dead!” her voice rising to a shriek.

“Hush! hush, Herlinda! O God, my child, what can this be to thee?” Doña Feliz shuddered as she spoke. She glanced at the closed window; the walls she knew to be a yard in thickness, yet she wished them double, lest a sound of these wild ravings should escape.

“Feliz, you dare not tell me!—then it is true! he is murdered! lost, lost to me forever!” The young girl slipped like water through the arms that would have clasped her, crouching upon the floor, wringing her hands, tearless, voiceless, after her last despairing words. Feliz attempted to raise her, but in vain.

Carmen, aroused by the sounds of distress, appeared in the doorway which connected the two rooms. “Back! go back!” cried Doña Feliz, and the child frightened and whimpering, withdrew. Feliz turned to the governess,—the deep dejection of her attitude struck her; and at that moment Doña Isabel appeared.