DON RAMIRO had been brought up in his infancy with young Iſabella Mendoſa, who was deſtined to be his wife. He loved her from a child. His paſſion for her increaſed with his years, and grew ſtronger with his reaſon. He was too amiable a perſon not to be beloved. Iſabella requited tenderneſs for her with the ſincereſt return; and every thing promiſed the two lovers all they wiſhed for, when cruel fortune made them ſuffer the ſevereſt trials.

The Count de St. Eſtevan ſaw Iſabella, and fell in love with her to diſtraction: He believed too, that, if he did but aſk the conſent of her parents, he ſhould eaſily obtain her in marriage; for he was rich, had an honorable poſt at court, was of a very ancient family; and, as ſuch conſiderable advantages pleaded in his favor, he actually made a propoſal to Iſabella's parents to marry her; but he had not the anſwer which he expected. The Marquis de Mendoſa ſaid, "He had long ſince promiſed his daughter to Don Ramiro, and that he could not prevail on himſelf to break his word, were the offer made to him ever ſo advantageous.

This denial was a ſenſible mortification to the Count de St. Eſtevan, but did not daunt him. The impatience of obtaining a good thing which if refuſed to us renders it precious to us, and the heart is never in a greater flutter than when it is agitated with the fear of loſing the object with which it is charmed. The Count laid his ſcheme to intereſt the court in his favor, and hoped that the Marquis de Mendoſa, who he knew was a crafty politician would alter his purpoſe, as ſoon as he ſaw it would be pleaſing to the Prince upon the throne. He ſet his friends at work, and carried his point.—The King ordered one of his Miniſters to ſpeak to the Marquis in the Count's favor. The Marquis immediately returned the ſame anſwer which he had given to the firſt propoſal of it; but it was conceived in ſuch terms as made the Miniſter believe it was not impoſſible but he might at length comply with his deſire. The view of the Marquis was that of an old Courtier. He was for enhancing the value of the ſacrifice that was demanded of him. He was ſenſible that if he made no conceſſion to the Miniſter, and appeared at the ſame time in a perplexity how to act, the King would ſpeak to him about the affair himſelf.

As he foreſaw, ſo it happened. The King ſpoke to him in favor of the Count de St. Eſtevan, and urged the matter very home. The crafty Courtier ſeemed to be in great tribulation, yet put on a ſubmiſſive air, and made anſwer, "That he thought his Majeſty did him too great an honor by condeſcending to intereſt himſelf in the concerns of his family." "I am much pleaſed, (ſaid the King) with your obedience, and will take care you ſhall find your account by it in due time and place." Theſe laſt words compleated the misfortunes of the unhappy Don Ramiro. From that very inſtant the Marquis was reſolved to ſacrifice him to his ambition. He thought himſelf the propere • perſon to acquaint him of his misfortune, and took all the care poſſible to ſweeten the bitter pill: Therefore, before he diſcovered the matter to him, he made a long ſpeech upon the ſad neceſſity that perſons attached to the court were under of conforming to the deſires of their Prince. In ſhort, he told Don Ramiro, that, by an order from court, he muſt reſign all thoughts of poſſeſſing Iſabella. Don Ramiro's aſtoniſhment as well as ſorrow was ſuch that he could make no anſwer. There are ſome ſituations ſo diſmaying, that the rejection of the heart throws a ſudden cloud over the underſtanding; and then both ſeem alike inſenſible, becauſe the grief with which they are affected takes too deep root for them to give outward marks of it, and the ſoul muſt have ſome time to recover a power of acting. Don Ramiro came to himſelf again, and looking ſternly at the Marquis de Mendoſa. "I thought, (ſaid he) that the repeated and ſolemn promiſes you made to me would have been my ſure protection from the injury which you now do me. You deſire me never to think more of Iſabella: You endeavor to perſuade me that you are forced to obey the King: but are you not Iſabella's father, and conſequently is ſhe not at your diſpoſal? The King is juſt, and, if you had but repreſented to him that you could not in honor break your engagement with me, he would not have required of you to commit an action that would ſtain your reputation."

Don Ramiro was going on in this ſtrain, but the harſh terms he made uſe of gave ſuch a ſhock to the vanity of the Marquis, that with a ſcornful air, he returned him a rough anſwer, and left him abruptly. He was ſo exaſperated againſt him, that he was no ſooner alone but he ordered his daughter to be ſent for. He had not yet informed her of her misfortune, becauſe he tho't it proper to have that previous converſation with Don Ramiro. The moment Iſabella appeared before him, he ſaid to her, with ſome ſharpneſs, "Daughter▪ I make no doubt but you have the love and reſpect for me that you owe to me. You muſt, this moment give me a ſubſtantial proof of it, by renouncing Don Ramiro. The King commands me to diſpoſe of you to the Count de St. Eſtevan; and what I demand of you is, that you look upon Don Ramiro as a man that I hate, and one that has offended me." Iſabella was ſo terrified at the thoughts of her deſtiny, that ſhe could not help uttering her complaints, though it was at the hazard of diſguſting her father. When misfortunes are come to a certain pitch, they inſpire the weakeſt ſouls with courage; and the proſpect of loſing all that is dear to us is generally attended with a reſolution to run all riſq • es for preſerving it. "Were you to diſapprove of my tears ever ſo much, ſaid Iſabella, permit me, dear father, to vent them in abundance. If I am unfortunate, it cannot be owing to any cauſe, but the ſubmiſſion I always paid to your commands. I ſcarce knew what I was before you brought me acquainted with Don Ramiro; you diſpoſed of my heart in his favour; you deſired I would give it up to him entirely. You told me day after day that you ſhould judge of my obedience to you by the degree of love which I entertained for him. You commanded me to conſider him as a ſpouſe, that ought to be the dearer to me, becauſe he was of your own ch • ſing. Alas! could I diſpute orders that were ſo poſitive? Could I foresee that you would one day be so cruel 〈◊〉 to revoke them? I have purſued, nay, intirely abandoned myſelf to the inclinations with which you inſpired me; I have only lived, for ſeveral years paſt, in hopes of having a ſpouſe in 〈◊〉 Ramiro, whoſe adreſſes, complaiſance, and amiable qualities, have deſerved all my love. And would you now require me, that I ſhould forget him all at once, and pluck that image out of my heart, which you yourſelf have engraved in it? Oh! father, by theſe knees of your's, which I now embrace, recall an order which is death to me. Take pity of an unhappy daughter, who has not deſerved to be ſo, and whoſe misfortunes it is in your power to put an end to. You gave me life: was it to render it miſerable? You make me no anſwer, you look another way. Alas! father, let me therefore expire at your feet, and thereby put a period to the cruel ſituation in which you have caſt me. You know how dearly I love Don Ramiro. You know the affection and eſteem I have for yourſelf. You demand, that I ſhould recall my heart from Don Ramiro: What would you have me do in this ſad dilemma? Being reduced as I am to the hard neceſſity of failing in my duty to you, or betraying my lover; death is the only reſource I have left."

"Your obſtinacy, replied the Marquis, deſerves to be puniſhed, and I ought to make you 〈◊〉 my authority, that you may learn the better to controul your inclination. I will leave you a little longer time to indulge your grief, after which I'll be obeyed, and admit of no farther plea. The Count de St. Eſtevan ſhall pay you a viſit; and prepare yourſelf to receive him as a perſon for whom you are allotted."

Theſe laſt words completed. Iſabella's deſpair, and her grief was almoſt turned of fury; but it was checked by the preſence of her father, tho' it did not hinder her from diſcovering how deeply ſhe was in love. "No, ſaid ſhe, father, I cannot reſolve to abandon Don Ramiro, Exert all the authority you have over me; make me feel the effects of your indignation: I am ready to ſubmit to every thing; and, ſince I am come to a reſolution not to obey the will of a father whom I adore, I fear not the worſt that can happen, but look upon it as a trifle, in compariſon with the object which has made you hate me."

The Marquis, perceiving his daughter inflexible, was reſolved to act with ſeverity, "Well then, ſaid he, ſince you will not obey me, I will find ou • a way to prevent you from ſeeing Don Ramiro. I give you twenty-four hours time to determine your choice, either of the Count de St. Eſtevan, or a Convent." "The moſt cruel impriſonment, replied Iſabella, will be a pleaſure to me, as it will ſave me from the horrid fate of being the wife of any other man in the world, if I cannot have Don Ramiro." "Withdraw, replied the Marquis, I begin to be out of patience with your obſtinacy, and you treſpaſs too far upon my forbearance." Iſabella retired from her father's apartment to her own, to give full vent to her grief.

Nature has certain prerogatives, which the hardeſt hearts cannot reſiſt. When the Marquis de Mendoſa was left alone, he could not but feel the ſecret reproach of his conſcience for the barbarity with which he had treated his daughter; but this remorſe of his, though there was ſo juſt an occaſion for it, did not laſt long. Iſabella was ignorant, in the mean time, whether Don Ramiro was a ſharer in her trouble. Her father had not let her into the ſecret of his diſguſt with him, nor did ſhe know the occaſion of the enmity betwixt two perſons that were ſo dear to her. Though ſhe could not ſpeak to her lover, ſhe reſolved to write to him. She acquainted him of the injunction laid upon her not to ſee him any more, and painted her condition with all its horrors. The domeſtic who carried her letter brought back an anſwer to it. She then perceived ſhe was unfortunate to the laſt degree. Don Ramiro, conjured her, by the love ſhe had for him, not to forget him; and aſſured her, that his life was in her hands, and that he would hold it by no other tenure than her conſtancy.

Don Ramiro's grief was no ſmall addition to Iſabella's How to alter her condition ſhe could not deviſe; nothing occurred to her thoughts, but what was gloomy and a afflicting; yet ſhe imagined a convent was the beſt place, for there ſhe hoped to receive tidings from Don Ramiro, with more eaſe than ſhe could at home; At leaſt ſhe was ſure of not being teazed by the Count de St. Eſtevan, whom ſhe looked upon as the only cauſe of her misfortunes. She had alſo ſome faint hopes, that, in time her father might alter his mind. How great ſoever the perplexity of the mind is, yet, till the evil is apprehended actually happens, there always remains ſome glimmer of hope. The underſtanding and the heart, which are ſo often at variance in good fortune, unite their forces in adverſity, to aſſiſt each other.

Iſabella, being reſolved to go into a convent, did not think it proper to ſtay for another melancholy converſation with her father. She imparted her deſign to one of the women of her bed-chamber, and, having contrived a way to leave the houſe without being perceived, ſhe ſtepped into a coach that waited for her, and drove to an Abbey, where the Abbeſs was her intimate friend and relation.

When the Marquis de Mendoſa heard that Iſabelly was gone off, he poſted with his complaint to the King, not ſo much out of a fondneſs to ſee his daughter, as to convince the Sovereign of the vigour with which he had acted in obedience to his orders. When he ſpoke to him he exaggerated the ſtruggle he had within his breaſt to ſurmount a fatherly tenderneſs, and concluded by aſſuring him that he was too ſenſible how much it was his duty to conform to his intentions, to ſuffer himſelf to he biaſſed by the tears of his daughter. The King ſeemed pleaſed with the conduct of the Marquis, yet he was not willing that the ſanctuary which Iſabella had choſen ſhould be violated: "She'll be weary, (ſaid he to the Marquis) of ſuch a melancholy retirement; and you will find her hereafter more tractable, and more ſubmiſſive to your commands."

The Marquis overjoyed that he had made his court ſo well, thought of nothing now but how to break off all correſpondence betwixt his daughter and Don Ramiro. He petitioned the court that the Abbeſs might be obliged to receive a woman into • he convent that was a creature of his, in order that she might be a ſpy upon Iſabella. His ſuit was granted, and the nuns were ordered to prevent any correſpondence between Don Ramiro and Iſabella.

The Count de St. Eſtevan was too much in love with her, not • o to be offended at the averſion ſhe diſcovered to him. He was not ignorant of the cauſe of it; and 〈◊◊〉 man but he would have thought of ••• king off a paſſion which could not but render him ••• appy: but he was too vain and preſumptuous to think to 〈◊〉 . He thought it impoſſible but that Iſabella muſt fall in love with him ſooner or later. His birth and his riches had made him intolerably conceited; and he was likewiſe obſtinate, paſſionate and Jealous. He ſent to Iſabella ſeveral times to deſire ſhe would give him leave to viſit her at the grate; but ſhe always refuſed him, and not without ſcorn. Theſe marks of hatred and contempt exaſperated the Count, who was now reſolved to haſten his marriage, and to prepare for removing every obſtacle that oppoſed it. His vanity was ſo offended, that it made him conſider Iſabella's charms with no other view than to render him unhappy; and he was ſo baſe a man as to entertain a deſire of marrying her as much out of ſpite as love. After he had conſidered with himſelf a long while what courſe he ſhould take to accompliſh his deſign he thought of none ſo expedient as that of removing Don Ramiro at a good diſtance from Iſabella; which, how difficult ſoever, he did not think impoſſible: Fortune favored him, a few days after this reſolution, with an opportunity which he could not have flattered himſelf with the hopes of.

Don Ramiro had found means, notwithſtanding the Marquis de Mendoſa's precautions, and the vigilence of the woman whom he had placed in the convent to be a ſpy upon her, to write to Iſabella, and to receive letters from her. This correſpondence had laſted ſome weeks. The nun, who was her confident, being very much preſſed to it by Don Ramiro, propoſed to Iſabella to ſee him in private, and gave her ſuch hopes of the ſucceſs of the aſſignation, that she could not withſtand her longings to ſee the lover from whom ſhe was parted. It was agreed that Don Ramiro ſhould come in the night time, over ſuch a part of the garden walls as was not ſo high as the reſt, and return after his viſit the ſame way. In ſhort, every thing ſeemed to be ſo well concerted, that 'twas thought impoſſible for any accident to defeat it.

Don Ramiro, having received the letter whereby Iſabella advertis'd him of the time and place of repairing to the garden, did not fail of going thither according to the appointment; but as his ill luck would have it, when he was got upon the wall, he was diſcovered by a perſon who was walking with two ſervants behind him, in the ſtreet next to the garden. This perſon was a party too much concerned to know who was got into the convent to leave any ſtone •• turned for ſtopping him. Therefore he ſent for the watch, and poſted it at the very place where he imagined Don Ramiro was to come back. After he had made this diſpoſition, the Count de St. Eſtevan, for he was the perſon, ſent to acquaint the nuns that there was a man in the garden.

The time which it neceſſarily took up to get the convent open in the night, gave Don Ramiro leiſure to fall at the feet of his dear Iſabella, and to ſay the tendereſt things to her in the phraſe of a lover. She, in her turn aſſured him that nothing could rend him from her heart, and that ſhe had rather live and die in a convent than become the wife of the Count de St. Eſtevan.

While theſe two lovers little thinking of the freſh misfortune that threatened them, were giving each other the moſt reciprocal marks of their love, they heard a confuſed noiſe in the convent, which obliged them to ſeparate. Don Ramiro haſtened to make his retreat over the wall; but no ſooner was he got down, than the men who had been poſted there for the purpoſe ruſhed upon him, and, without giving him time to prepare for his defence, took away his ſword, and then in the King's name charged him to follow them. The Captain of the watch cauſed him to be committed afterwards to priſon, and drew up an information againſt him, which he laid next day before the Solicitor General.

The Count de St. Eſtevan, though the ſole author of the misfortune that happened to Don Ramiro, did not appear to have had any hand in it; for the man he had ſent for the watch, and he who gave notice to the nuns, were both unknown. It was mere accident that brought the Count into this ſtreet, juſt as Don Ramiro was clambering the wall; and it was jealouſy which made him believe that it could be no body but his rival. He knew of what importance it was to get him arreſted, and imagined now that his ruin was unavoidable, the violation of the walls of a convent being in Spain a capital crime. His deſign ſucceeded but too well. The lawyers prepared his indictment, and the death of Don Ramiro was next to a certainty. He had not a word to plead in his excuſe, and he had the poſitive evidence of all thoſe who had taken him. This affair was the talk of the whole city of Madrid, where Don Ramiro was generally beloved; All men of honour pitied him, and ſolicited for him, but ſcarce hoped for any ſucceſs.

The ſorrowful Iſabella was almoſt diſtracted, and reproached herſelf that ſhe had been the cauſe of the ruin of her lover. The melancholy to which ſhe abandoned herſelf was ſuch, that her friends dreaded it would put a period to her days. Her father the Marquis de Mendoſa was alarmed at it; and the Count de St. Eſtevan who was informed of it by a nun he had bribed, imagined that Iſabella would not long ſurvive Don Ramiro. He had too great an affection for her to ſeek her deſtruction, and reſolved to employ his own and his friends credit to ſave Don Ramiro's life. He had hitherto done every thing that was in his power underhand, to ruin him; and though he now left off his intrigues, yet he was ſtill in hopes of making his rival's misfortune ſubſervient to his purpoſe of obtaining Iſabella. He imparted his deſign to the Marquis de Mendoſa, and made him ſenſible that it would not be impoſſible to procure a pardon for Don Ramiro, provided that Iſabella would forget him. The Marquis approved of the Count's propoſal, and promiſed to ſpeak of it to his daughter. He repaired to the convent, and having ſent for his daughter, deſired to ſpeak with her alone. The grief with which you are oppreſſed, ſaid he, melts my heart into compaſſion, and I will, if poſſible, put a ſtop to it. You dread the thoughts of Don Ramiro's death; you reproach yourſelf with being the cauſe of the ſentence which is ſoon to be paſſed upon him, while it is in your power not only give him life but to reſtore him to liberty. "Alas! my father, cried Iſabella, if Don Ramiro is to live, I am happy indeed! What, ſhall I be ſo fortunate as to pluck him from the unhappy fate that attends him? Can I preſerve that life to him which he is to loſe through my imprudence? Nay, can I alſo reſtore him to liberty with life? Say but the word, father, there's nothing that I will not do."—"One word is ſufficient, (replied the Marquis) and you ſave Don Ramiro: One ſingle yea delivers him out of priſon. The Count de St. Eſtevan deſires to have you in marriage. The King countenances his ſuit. Do you but give your content, and Don Ramiro is free." "It, (ſaid Iſabella, diſſolving in tears) if that is the only way I have left to ſave Don Ramiro's life, I rather chuſe to die with him; he loves me too well to conſent to live upon ſuch a condition as that, and would be ſorry that I had prevented his death by ſuch a conceſſion. Oh! Father, (continued ſhe, throwing herſelf at his feet) by th • ſe knees which I now embrace, by that love which you once had for me; by that tender reſpect which I always had for you, and which I ſhall carry to my grave, take pity on your unhappy daughter: May her tears affect you. Theſe, alas! for above three months paſt, have been my only reſource, my only relief. Permit me to go and end thoſe days, which are a burden to me, far from Don Ramiro, and far from the Count. You expect that I ſhould put out the 〈◊〉 of love which yourſelf ki •• lled. Though I cannot obey you—though Don Ramiro's image cannot be effaced out of my heart, I will, however, for your ſatisfaction, behave in ſuch a manner, as it I was no longer in love with the object of your diſpleaſure. Let Don Ramiro live in the world, while, for my own part, I retire to ſome 〈◊〉 , from that would wherein I have been 〈…〉 . You make 〈◊〉 no anſwer, father; what have I done to deſerve this harſhneſs with which you caſt me down?"

"Daughter, (replied the Marquis, at the ſame time that he raiſed up Iſabella from her knees) it is not from anger that I do not make you an anſwer; it is becauſe I have nothing to ſay for your comfort, as glad as I ſhould be to aſſuage your grief and to ſave Don Ramiro. Your hand is the price of his life, and upon no other condition can his pardon be granted. He will be indebted for it to the Count de St. Eſtevan, who by his marriage with you takes upon him to obtain it of the King, though his Majeſty has refuſed it to all others who have ſolicited it. The time is very preſſing, and perhaps when you would be glad to ſave Don Ramiro's life it may be too late: His ſentence is juſt ready to be paſſed; after which it will not not be poſſible to prevent the execution of it. If his life be as dear to you as you ſay it is, haſten to ſave it."—" If it be dear to me! replied Iſabella, good God! can you ſo much as doubt of it? Have you not taken ſufficient care to endear him to me? You opened that frightful abyſs into which you have now plunged me, when I was but an infant. Since it muſt be ſo, I am reſolved to periſh: I will die and Don Ramiro will follow me to the grave. He has too great an affection for me to take it amiſs of me that I did not ſave a life which he could not ſpend with me." "Very well, replied the Marquis, with ſome bitterneſs, your obſtinacy will meet with its due reward; and, ſince you are willing that Don Ramiro ſhall die, you ſhall have your deſire •• I will go myſelf to haſten it, and to demand juſtice for the offront he has put upon me, and the indelible ſtain with which he has diſgraced you. I will join iſſue with th • nuns who proſecute him, and animate all that ſeek his ruin." The Marquis had no ſooner ſaid this than he was retiring; but Iſabella cried out to him with a faint and almoſt dying voice, "Stay, father, ſtay, Don Ramiro's life muſt be ſaved: no I cannot conſent that he ſhould periſh; I could not have conceived the horror that I felt, juſt as you was going to part from me; all the misfortunes that oppreſs me are nothing to my anguiſh at the view of his approaching death, but how much more ſhould I ſuffer by his death itſelf? Save Don Ramiro's life, I will obey." At theſe words Iſabella fainted away. The Marquis called for perſons to relieve her, who, with great difficulty brought her to herſelf; and then ſhe deſired to be carried to her chamber.

The Marquis ſatisfied with his daughter's promiſe, was not much concerned at her fainting fit, in which he thought there was no great danger, but looked on it as the laſt ſtruggle of a paſſion, which her marriage with the Count de St. Eſtevan would quickly ſmother; and he went to carry him the news of his daughter's conſent. The Count, overjoyed, that his project had ſucceeded ſo well, put his friends upon employing their intereſt at court; and the King granted Don Ramiro a pardon: But before it was delivered to him, St. Eſtevan was for concluding his marriage. The unfortunate Iſabella was accordingly married to Don Ramiro's mortal enemy, whom yet the conſidered as his deliverer. The ſervice which ſhe imagined the Count had done Don Ramiro, rendered him leſs hateful in her eyes, and honour made her reſolve to do every thing in her power to ſtifle a paſſion, which, after her marriage, ſhe thought would be criminal. Nay, ſhe was determined to try, by all means, to raiſe her affection for a huſband to whom ſhe had only been married by compulſion.

Don Ramiro had heard nothing of all this in his priſon, where he was abandoned to the moſt melancholy ideas. He wiſhed his Judges would haſten the moment of his death, and the thought of its being near at hand was the only comfort he had, at the time that the news was brought him that the king had ſigned his pardon. At firſt he imagined that Iſabella's fate could not be unhappy, ſince his own was ſo much mended; and this ſingle thought was no ſmall addition to his joy. Now then, ſaid he, I will reviſit the adorable Iſabella. I hope to have leave to die at her feet, and to atone for the misfortunes that I have brought upon her. "I adviſe you, ſaid the perſon who brought him his pardon, to avoid Iſabella's company; ſhe will but increaſe your troubles." "No, no ſaid Don Ramiro, bluntly interrupting him, I make no account of life but to ſee, to love, and to adore, Iſabella. If I were to renounce her, the pardon granted to me would be a cruel puniſhment." "But what hopes, replied the perſon can you have now? For ſince ſhe is married"—"What! married! ſaid Don Ramiro. Ah! then I muſt die." His ſorrow making his ſpeech faulter, he was quite • unk under the weight of his misfortune.

In this ſtate Don Ramiro remained for near a quarter of an hour; but, ſorrow having at length recalled his ſoul to itſelf, his dejection was ſoon ſucceeded by rage. "What! ſaid he, has Iſabella betrayed me? Has that Iſabella, whoſe heart I always thought full of tenderneſs for me abandoned me? Has ſhe even married my rival? Ah! cruel one, I will diſappoint you, and you ſhall no longer feaſt your eyes with the grief of a lover whom you have drove to deſpair."

The perſon who had acquainted Don Ramiro with Iſabella's marriage, not thinking that this news would have had ſuch an effect upon him, endeavoured to pacify him by a vindication of Iſabella's conduct. He knew that this amiable young lady only conſented to marry the Count, in order to ſave Don Ramiro's life; he therefore gave him a particular detail of what his unfortunate miſtreſs had ſuffered, and of the neceſſity ſhe was reduced to of giving her hand to the Count de St. Eſtevan for that very purpoſe.

Don Ramiro obſerved a penſive ſilence during the narrative of his dear Iſabella's misfortunes, and his rage, by degrees▪ abated. Every token of his miſtreſs's love made that impreſſion upon his heart which reaſon operates on a mind that is ſomewhat diſturbed. At length, the paſſion which he had for Iſabella having recovered intire poſſeſſion of his ſoul, he cried out, in a plaintive tone, "Alas! Why has ſhe loved me to ſuch a degree! Or rather, why did ſhe not let me die? What ſhall I do with a life that I ſo much hate?"

While Don Ramiro was thus complaining, the officers of juſtice came to ſet him at liberty. He was ſo afflicted, that he made them no anſwer, but went out with them, plunged in deep meditation, and, at the bottom of the ſteps of the priſon in which he had been confined, found a coach, which carried him home. He no ſooner ſet down, than he wrote a letter to Iſabella, complaining of his hard lot; but her anſwer made him more uneaſy than before. He ſaw that ſhe had ſtill the ſame kindneſs for him; he was fully ſenſible of the ſacrifice which ſhe had made to ſave his life, yet this ſame Iſabella was he obliged to ſhun; and death, which he thought the only remedy for his misfortunes, was not permitted him. In this ſad ſituation Don Ramiro reſolved to indulge melancholy till it put an end to his miſfortunes, and in this way did he live for above three months, when a man, altogether unknown to him, deſired to ſpeak with him. "I come, Sir, ſaid he, to reveal a ſecret to you, which it highly concerns you to know. I was many years a domeſtic of the Count de St. Eſtevan, and it is not above a month ſince I left his ſervice, I am now going to leave Madrid; elſe ſooner or later, I ſhall feel the Counts reſentment. Shall I tell you the very thing that has puſhed him to ruin me? He is afraid le • t I ſhould acquaint you, that it was he who diſcovered you when you got over into the convent. He has always perſecuted you ſince; and, while you was in priſon, I went with him very often, to ſeveral of your judges, whom he ſolicited to ruin you. It is true he had a hand in procuring your pardon, when your miſtreſs had conſented to marry him. I hope you will not ſuffer the ſecret I tell you to be divulged before I am gone from Madrid. Nothing could ſave one from his fury if he knew that I had informed you of his behaviour, he being in a continual alarm for fear his ſpouſe ſhould come to the knowledge of it."

While the domeſtic was purſuing his narrative, Don Ramiro was in a perfect rage. "The treacherous wretch, ſaid he, ſhall moſt certainly die; his impoſture ſhall have its due reward"

Don Ramiro, without delay, prepared to put his menaces into execution. He wrote two letters, one to Iſabella, wherein he told her what her huſband had done, and the other to the Count, inviting him to decide, without any one's privity, a quarrel, for which nothing could put an end, but the death of one of them.

Iſabella was gone to pay a viſit to her ſiſter the Marchioneſs del Prado, when the domeſtic delivered the letter to the Count. He was nettled at it to the laſt degree; and, though he was more brutiſh than brave, he was ſo animated by his pride and reſentment, that without waiting for Iſabella's return, he went out that very moment alone to the place appointed. The two antagoniſts were no ſooner met, but without any parley they drew their ſwords and fought furiouſly. They had each received ſeveral wounds, but their rage hindered them from perceiving that they had loſt blood. Don Ramiro vexed at meeting with ſuch reſiſtence, from a rival whom he deſpiſed as much as he hated, was determined to put an end by one puſh to a duel which had laſted ſo long, and, making a full paſs at the Count, ran him into the breaſt; but he received a ſlab in the bottom of his belly, which was altogether as dangerous. Theſe two laſt thruſts diſabled the two combatants alike at one and the ſame time, and both loſt ſo much blood that they could no longer ſtand on their feet, but fell down both together, the moment that a coach came to them.

Whoſe coach ſhould this be but Iſabella's, who, receiving Don Ramiro's letter when ſhe came home, and finding upon enquiry, that her huſband was gone out alone, made no doubt but he had ſome duel on his hands. In her confuſion ſhe happened alſo to go into the Count's chamber, and perceived a letter on the table, which, by the hand-writing ſhe gueſſed to be Don Ramiro's; and it was indeed the very challenge he had wrote to his rival. Iſabella needed no farther information to direct her to the place ſhe was to go to. When ſhe alighted out of the coach. She ran towards her huſband, who hardly knew her, and was ſo weak, that he could not ſpeak. Iſabella turned her eyes every now and then to Don Ramiro, whoſe condition was altogether as dangerous. Duty engaged her to ſupport her huſband, love called her attention to her lover: her care was engaged for the Count, her wiſhes for Don Ramiro. She was ſenſible that ſhe ought that inſtant to have carried her huſband to town but then Don Ramiro would have been left without any manner of help. Love prevailed over decorum, and ſhe ſtaid till her ſervants had carried Don Ramiro to a neighbouring convent. The Count, as faint as he was, had ſenſe enough to perceive what reaſons his wife had for not returning with more ſpeed to Madrid. Theſe his jealouſy pointed to him in the blackeſt colours, and nothing but his being ſo faint hindered him from exclaiming againſt Iſabella with the moſt bitter reproaches. The unfortunate Don Ramiro was ſenſible alſo of the obligations which he had to his miſtreſs; and, though he ſpoke very low, and though Iſabella made him no manner of anſwer, the Count ſuſpecting that there was an underſtanding between them, and the more he reflected, the more he was confirmed in it; ſo that during the firſt days of his illneſs he thought of nothing elſe. His duel was not unknown at court; but, as neither his wounds nor thoſe of Don Ramiro were mortal, juſtice took no cognizance of the matter, and there was no proſecution.

As ſoon as the Count de St. Eſtevan had recovered ſpirits to ſhew his reſentment. He rallied Iſabella with all the ſharpneſs that could be. "I do not know what you mean, replied Iſabella, and, if you really imagine that I was any way concerned in your duel, you would be the moſt ungenerous of mortals." "Nay, replied the Count in a rage, it was you that fet on Don Ramiro to attack me. I ſaw the confuſion of your countenance, when he was wounded. Regardleſs whether I lived or died, you thought of nothing but the danger you ſuppoſed he was in. He could not command his temper enough, not to expreſs his grateful ſenſe of it to you before my face: and I ſaw him thank you for it. My eyes ready to be cloſed for ever, expoſed both my own diſgrace and yours to me. But would to God I had been ſtrong enough at that inſtant to have ſtabbed your lover to the heart, and you after him!"

"I am not deaf, ſaid Iſabella with an Indignant air, to the reproaches which you have caſt upon me; reproaches as worthy of you as they are unworthy of me. My virtue defies the blackeſt calumney; nor do I fear the ſlander of the huſband to whom cruel fortune has been pleaſed to join me. But, for my own ſatisfaction, I muſt tell you what perhaps you never yet knew. I loved Don Ramiro from my very infancy. The unhappy paſſion which you entertained for me deprived me of him for ever. I conſented to marry you in order to ſave his life, and reſolved from that time to baniſh him from my heart; but I perceived that my efforts were vain, and that his image haunted me wherever I went. Mean time I turned my duty into a ſevere law. Mean time I turned my duty into a ſevere law. I ordered Don Ramiro to keep out of my ſight: I lived with you in the beſt manner I could; I fell in with every thing that I thought could pleaſe you, and even wiſhed I could love you. When my heart was in ſo uneaſy a ſituation, I learnt that you was the ſole author of my misfortunes, and thoſe of Don Ramiro. I find that it was you that cauſed him to be apprehended. Barbarous as it was; and as much an abhorrence as I have for ſo ſhocking a deed, I perſevere in my duty, and my virtue is not ſhaken. I found by a letter lying on your table the place appointed for your duel with Don Ramiro. I ran thither to ſeparate you, but could not arrive ſoon enough. You reproach me for ſhewing a concern at the condition in which I ſaw my lover. I was concerned, no doubt, and am not aſhamed to own it. Alas! why ſhould I not pity a virtuous man; one who is truly worthy of being beloved, and who is unfortunate for my ſake? Thus have you now heard what I had to ſay • o you."

At theſe words the Counteſs went out of her huſband's chamber, and left him ſeemingly abſorbed in a profound reverie. The ſincere confeſſion which ſhe had made put him into ſuch a ſtate, that he could not diſtinguiſh right and a wrong. He was ſmitten with the tokens which Iſabella had given him of her honeſty and firmneſs of mind. He admired her frankneſs and ſincerity; but, on the other hand, his jealous temper inclined him to think, that, as ſhe had an affection for Don Ramiro, it would not be long before ſhe ſhook off the yoke of troubleſome virtue, and that the firſt opportunity ſhe would betray him. The affront he had lately put upon her increaſed his apprehenſion. We commonly judge of others hearts by our own. The wicked imagine that the moſt commendable actions are only artful cloaks for knavery.

Such tormenting thoughts were quickly ſucceeded by rage, and he reſolved to be revenged the very firſt opportunity, both upon Iſabella and Don Ramiro. He would have been glad to have gone that inſtant from Madrid, and to have carri-his ſpouſe to one of his country ſeats, but his wounds hindered him from ſetting out as yet. He was therefore under the neceſſity of bearing all with patience.

While the Count thought of confining his wife in ſome ſolitary place, far from court, Don Ramiro being perfectly cured of his wounds, prepared to quit not only Madrid but Spain, and to travel in foreign parts. He had no hopes of finding any alleviation of his ſuffering, while he continued at Madrid. He thought abſence would be his only relief. Love is excited and animated, more than any paſſion, by the nearneſs of its object.

Don Ramiro was juſt upon ſetting out for France; but he could not reſolve • o quit Spain, without acquainting Iſabella of it. Iſabella received his letter, and read it ſeveral times, but not without ſhedding tears. The departure of her lover, is neceſſary as ſhe thought it, overwhelmed herſelf with grief. She had been plunged a long time in theſe melancholy reflections, when word was brought her that her father was come. She went out of her chamber to receive him, and threw Don Ramiro's letter into a little box upon her toilet. Whether it was that ſhe had not time to lock it, or whether ſhe really forgot it, her huſband coming ſoon after into her chamber, while ſhe was in another room with her father, had the jealous curioſity to peep into this • ox where he knew Iſabella ſometimes kept her papers. There he found Don Ramiro's letter, which he read and • aid again in its place; but was in ſuch a violent paſſion, that from that moment he formed a deſign to be the ruin of Don Ramiro, and to ſecure his wife in a cloſe priſon for her life. Nevertheleſs he reſolved to take no notice till the moment he could work his revenge.

The wicked are more maſters of their tempers than thoſe who mean well. The ſentiments of the latter are painted on their faces; and in vain would they ſeek to diſſemble; for their looks, their language, in ſhort, every thing would betray them. True virtue can bear no maſk of any ſhape whatſoever; but diſſimulation is the art of the wicked. The more heinous the crimes are which they intend, the more art have they to conceal them.

The Count de St. Eſtevan had a ſoul ſo baſe, that he was ſure of putting the revenge he had contrived into execution, without any poſſibility of preventing it. He propoſed to his wife to retire to one of his eſtates; Iſabella who only deſired a ſolitary retirement from the world, and was the more earneſt for it after ſhe had heard of Don Ramiro's journey, readily conſented to her huſband's offer; and ſhe even preſſed him to ſet out with all ſpeed.

The Marquis de Mendoſa who thought differently from his daughter, was very ſorry to find her going into the country. He only matched her to the Count de St. Eſtevan, thinking that the rank ſhe would hold at court would make her inſtrumental to his ambition; but now all his hopes would be fruſtrated by being deprived of his daughter, and he ſhould reap no advantage from having made her unhappy. He did what of lay in his power with the Count to hinder from leaving Madrid: but could obtain nothing him. He feared and not without reaſon, how paſſionate and jealous he would be, when he was at a diſtance from the court and could act without any reſtraint. Theſe mortifying ideas, which were but too well founded, determined the Marquis to place a waiting maid with his daughter on whom he could depend, and who promiſed to inform him how Iſabella fared, and how her huſband behaved to her.

The Count ſet out for his eſtate, continuing his diſſimulation, and making no diſcovery 〈◊〉 it could give Iſabella the leaſt ſuſpicion of the horrid deſigns which he was contriving, and putting into execution. This barbarian had poſted aſſaſſins in Don Ramiro's road, who, after having murdered him, were to bring him his heart: but Don Ramiro's good fortune preſerved him from the ſnares that were laid for him. His valet-de-chambre happening to receive a wound by a fall from his horſe, two leagues from the wood where the ruffians were poſted. Don Ramiro did not care to ſtop, but ordered him to be put into his chaiſe, and carried gently to the next town: then he mounted his horſe, taking only one footman with him, leaving the other to take care of the valet-de-chambre. The aſſaſſins, ſeeing two men paſs by upon a gallop, thought they were Don Ramiro's domeſtics going to get poſt horſes ready at the next ſtage. They were overjoyed to think, that the man whom they aimed at was deprived of that aſſiſtance which he might otherwiſe have had, and lay concealed in that poſt. An hour after came Don Ramiro's chai • e, which they preſently knew to be the ſame the • were to attack. They fired at the poſtilion, and killed him; the lacky, who was on horſeback, ſeeing him fall, turned about his horſe, and rode back. The aſſaſſins, having him who was in the chaiſe at their mercy did not give him time ſo much as to ſpeak, but ſhot him dead: After which they took his body, disfigured as it was with its blood, out of the chaiſe, opened the ſtomach, plucked out his heart and put it into a box▪ as for the body they interred in the middle of the wood, and far from the road, as they had been ordered, left, if it had been found with the heart taken out of it, a ſuſpicion might have ariſen that the murder had not been committed by common highwaymen.

Don Ramiro having waited a day for his valet-de-chambre, ſent away meſſengers to learn what was become of him. Having met with the lacky, who as above-mentioned, rode off upon the attack of the chaiſe, they brought him to Don Ramiro, and it was by his intelligence that he knew of the aſſaſſination of the poſtilion and valet de-chambre. He imagined that thoſe who had committed the murder were highwaymen; and after having laid an account of what had happened before the Magiſtrates, he thought it his beſt way not to ſtay longer, his preſence for proſecution for the murder being not neceſſary.

At the ſame time that Don Ramiro was travelling to Paris, the ruffians who had aſſaſſinated his valet de-chambre ſteered their courſe towards the eſtate of the Count de St. Eſtevan, to whom they carried the heart, for which he was exceedingly impatient: for the murder of his rival was but a ſaint ſketch of the horrid projects which he had formed; his raging jealouſy having put him upon deſigns, attended with the more barbarity and cruelty than that of the f •••• eſt monſters. There is no paſſion ſo dangerous as jealouſy, in a wicked heart, for it prompts i • to the greateſt outrages.

The Count's joy was beyond all meaſure, when he thought himſelf rid of his rival. All that vexed him was, that the aſſaſſins had not told Don Ramiro, before they murdered him, that they did it by his order; for he thought his revenge was not compleat, becauſe his enemy did not know who ſtruck him. He reproached the aſſaſſins for it more than once, and ſaid they had performed their commiſſion by halves. As the other crimes. which he had contrived, were to be executed in his view, he reſolved to take meaſures, that they might not be defective in the matter of 〈◊〉 . He ſent for his cook, and calling him into his 〈◊〉 , "I am to let thee into a ſecret, ſaid he, on which depends thy fortune, or thy death. Do not think thou can'st eſcape my wrath; 〈…〉 refuſe • t to obey me, expect not to 〈◊〉 another day. The furious air, and wild looks of the Count made the poor cook tremble, and his fright and ſuſpicious were greatly increaſed, when he heard that he was to dreſs the heart of a man, in the ragoo faſhion, for Iſabella. He made no doubt but this heart was poiſoned; and though he was in the utmoſt fear, he fell on his knees at his maſter's feet, and with a promiſe that he would never ſpeak of what had paſſed, begged that he would not make •• e of him to p •• ſon a 〈◊〉 of ſo much honour as Iſabella. "Who bids 〈…〉 the Count abruptly, I 〈…〉 for her death. I ſhould not 〈…〉 pleaſure, 〈◊〉 away with 〈…〉 were the 〈◊〉 for I would fain return to the falſe creature all the evils and all the vexation ſhe has brought upon me."

The cook having had time to reflect on what the Count had ſaid, believed that the heart was not poiſoned. He immediately formed a deſign however, to prevent Iſabella's taſting that horrible ragoo that was deſigned for her; but made a ſhew of entering into the Count's views. "Since you will have it ſo, Sir, ſaid he, I muſt obey you. Be aſſured that I ſhall keep it is an everlaſting ſecret. Since you tell me there is no poiſoning in the caſe, it is not my buſineſs to inquire into your deſigns" "I am ſatisfied, replied the Count, and will make thee a ſuitable reward."

As ſoon as the cook was gone out of his maſters room, his firſt care was to throw the fatal fleſh which he was charged to dreſs into the common ſhore, and fell to hall • ing the meat which he deſigned to ſerve up inſtead of the heart. When dinner-time 〈…〉 apprehend the ſteward that ſuch a 〈…〉 to him, was that which his maſter had given him particular 〈◊◊〉 to prepare; and the 〈◊〉 told the count 〈…〉 and it to Iſabella. When he ſaw 〈…〉 was 〈◊〉 the barbarous 〈…〉 the 〈…〉 of 〈…〉 would esteem it as the greater 〈◊〉 .

When the 〈…〉 the Count went with Iſabella to 〈…〉 which ſubſtantial reaſons have made me deter till now. I have been acquainted of your infidelity a great while, and have ſure proofs of it."

Iſabella was going to make anſwer to her huſband; but, without giving her time to ſpeak, he ſaid to her, "Whatever you ſhall offer in your juſtification will be to no purpoſe; I read, treacherous woman, the laſt letter which your ſpark wrote to you on the day that he ſet out of town. He aſſures you that he will releaſe you from me. He gives you hopes of my death." "Alas, cried Iſabella; do not think that I have any concern in dictating the language which Don Ramiro's vexation for having loſt me may put into his mouth; my honour does not allow me to be ſuſpected of ſuch a crime; It is eaſy for me to vindicate myſelf from it. I fear not your reproaches nor your calumnies; but I dread ſuſpicious that ſeem to have a foundation. So far was I from flattering Don Ramiro's paſſion, that I wiſhed for his departure; I was really glad that he was going ſo far out of my ſight." "I have taken care, replied the Count with ſome warmth to ſecond your wiſhes, and the death, which I have cauſed him to be put to, will forever ſave you the trouble of putting him out to your ſight." "What, ſaid Iſabella with a ruins and trembling voice, have you cauſed Don Ramiro to be murdered?" "Yes, traitor, replied the Count, I have revenged the wrong done to me. I 〈◊〉 how it operates upon you. and am very ſenſible how deeply it afflicts you. This it was what I wiſhed, and what Heaven 〈◊〉 to my revenge." "Barbarous wretch! cried Iſabella, what more can'ſt thou expect to fill up the meaſure of thy iniquity? Come, let me accompany Don Ramiro; put me alſo to death: Why doſt thou make a ſtop in the midſt of thy career? Deliver me from thy preſence which I cannot bear, and reſtore me the happineſs which thou haſt taken from me." "Yes, yes, ſaid the Count in a fury, I will reſtore that happineſs to you which you ſo earneſtly deſire, and have already done it, before you wiſhed it. 〈◊〉 was willing to do all in my power to join you with your lover; I thought it convenient that you yourſelf ſhould ſerve as a tomb for his aſhes. Remember the diſh that I recommended to you at table; it was his heart that I had ordered to be cooked up ſo"

There are certain ſituations wherein one would think the ſoul could not be quite over a helmed with great; yet it is then in the utmoſt ferment worked up by horror and deſpair, which give it a force that otherwiſe it would not have. The horrid ſecret which the Count had revealed to Iſabella inſtead of 〈…〉 her. "Thou 〈…〉 to aſtoniſh me by telling me of this new crime 〈…〉 but what is like thee. In 〈…〉 me thou haſt ſerved me, and even crowned all my wiſhes. My dear lover, dear ſpouſe! thou adorable Ramiro. Thou whoſe heart which loved me ſo 〈◊〉 and which is lodged 〈…〉 body, do thou hear the 〈◊〉 I make to thee. 〈◊〉 thou have the pleaſure 〈◊〉 ſeeing the full extent of my love; if I have any 〈…〉 , it is to be re •• u •• ted to thee. I perceive thy confuſion, continued Iſabella, addreſſing herſelf to the Count; thou thoughteſt to have triumphed over my ſorrow, whereas I now triumph over thine. Cowardly aſſaſſi •• thou haſt not a word to ſay for thyſelf. Confuſion is painted on thy face; thou fretteſt thyſelf to death for having loſt the principal fruit of thy revenge." "No, it is not loſt, ſaid the Count, drawing his ſword, and, as it is in my 〈◊〉 to take away thy life, I have one way ſtill 〈…〉 puniſhing thee" "Strike, replied Iſabella ſtrike; thou are well verſed in the art of aſſaſſination.

T' ••• laſt inſult made the Count quite raving mad • and he ran his ſword at Iſabella, by which he pricked her in the arm, and was going to repeat his thruſt, when the waiting woman, whom the Marquis de Mendoſa had appointed for his daughter, entering the room; and, ruſhing upon the Count, called out with horrid •• ricks for help. Several of the ſervants came, and ſeeing Iſabella all over bloody, and hunted away in an arm chair, 〈…〉 another appartment, and left the Count 〈…〉 that he ſeemed to be all in a fury, and 〈…〉 had ſoft the uſe of his reaſon. As ſoon as he began to come to himſelf, he went to Iſabella's chamber door, but the ſame woman who came into ſeaſonably to face the 〈…〉 one▪ with the aſſiſtance of two 〈…〉 their maſter for this action, 〈…〉 entrance.

By the care that was taken of Iſabella, ſhe can't 〈…〉 : and though ſhe had recovered her ſpirits, death and confuſion were 〈◊〉 on her countenance. Good God, ſaid ſhe, fetching a deep ſigh, what have I come to deſerve the diſtreſs which! ſuffer!" She then turned to her waiting woman • who was crying by her ſide, and acquainted her of all her huſband's guilt. "Your huſband's blood, ſaid the waiting woman, muſt be ſhed to atone for the aſſaſſination of your lover. Thoſe crimes of his, which make nature ••• dder, muſt be diſcovered to 〈◊〉 magiſtrates. Leave it to me to work your 〈◊〉 . "No, replied Iſabella, let us conceal 〈◊〉 everlaſting ſilence the crimes which the name of 〈…〉 , that I ſhould ••• other in ſilence. I am going to retire to a convent, where I ſhall be at liberty to lament the death of Don Ramiro, and to cheriſh his memory. I charge you not to let any one know the misfortunes which I have ſuffered; became the diſcovery of them would only ſerve to renew them." The waiting woman promiſed her miſtreſs to ſatisfy her in every thing that the requeſted; but • notwithſtanding her promiſe, ſent private information to the Marquis de Mendoſa of his daughter's wound, of Don Ramiro's being aſſaſſinated, and of the cruel ragoo. The Marquis, at the receipt of this intelligence, was extremely afflicted: Yet ſtate policy which influenced all his actions, was his guide alſo upon this occaſion. He was ſenſible that by revealing the Count de St. Eſtevan's crimes, which were hitherto known only to himſelf and Iſabella's waiting woman, he ſhould ſtain his own character. The ignomenious death of his ſon in law would be a diſgrace to him and all his family; therefore he reſolved to complain only of what was already public. He acquainted the King of the wound his daughter had received, and of her huſband's rage; and, like a crafty Courtier, took this occaſion to magnify the ſubmiſſion he had paid to the orders of his ſovereign, and improving thoſe ſufferings which ſeemed the moſt cruel, to pave the way of his preferment. The King was affected by Iſabella's misfortunes, permitted her father to ſend for her back to Madrid, and diſpatched an order that ſhe might be brought thither by twenty dragoons, who were ſent to fetch her from the country.

While theſe things paſſed at Madrid, the Count de St. Eſtevan was actually ſet out for Liſbon. He did not imagine that Iſabella was ſo generous as to conceal the aſſaſſination of Don Ramiro; and therefore ordered three of his ſervants, of whom the cook was one, to be ready to let forward in the d •• k of the evening.

Iſabella continued three or four days longer in ſuch a low ſtate of ſpirits as hindered her from being ſenſible of all her misfortunes. In proportion as the began to recover her ſpirits, and to give more hopes of life, her ſorrows gathered ſtrength: The death of Don Ramiro appeared freſher in her imagination. She reſolved, however, to bear up againſt her ſorrow, though ſhe could not conquer it: And, when the guard above mentioned was come for her ſhe was in a condition to endure the fatigue at of the journey. She would have been glad to have been excuſed going to Madrid; and • he wrote on that 〈◊〉 to her father, and made uſe of the dragoons that were ſent, to conduct her to an 〈◊〉 very far from that capital, and which was in the kingdom of Valen ••• on the frontier of Catatonia, where ſhe reſolved to paſs the reſt of her days. When ſhe was arrived there, ſhe acquainted her father of her reſolution, and begged him not to oppoſe it, becauſe ſhe was firmly reſolved to quit the world forever.

While Iſabella was edifying all the Nuns by her behaviour, Don Ramiro heard at Paris that his miſtreſs was retired to a Convent, as well as how ſhe came to be ſeparated from her huſband. On the other hand, the Count de St. Eſtevan, having made it his buſineſs to enquire what was the talk at Madrid about Don Ramiro, diſcovered that he was not dead. The Marquis de Mendoſa was alſo undeceived; and, ſeveral perſons having received letters from Don Ramiro at Paris, giving an account of the aſſaſſination of his valet-de-chambre, the Marquis de Mendoſa was let into the real truth of this affair. He reſ • ved to ſet out himſelf to convince his daughter how ſhe had been impoſed on, and to tell her news which he was ſure muſt be very grateful to her. While he was preparing to ſet out, two other perſons ſteered the ſame courſe, viz. Don Ramiro and the Count de St. Eſtevan. Don Ramiro let out from Paris three days after he came to it; for, as ſoon as he was informed of Iſabella's retreat to a Convent, he thought fit to haſten thither, in order to defend her againſt the attacks of her tyrant. On the other hand, the Count, being no longer apprehenſive of any proſecution for the aſſaſſination of Don Ramiro, quitted Liſbon, and ſet out for the abbey to which he was informed his wife had retired. His deſign was either to poiſon or ſtab her; for his rage and jealouſy were doubled after he ſaw Iſabella out of his power.

Don Ramiro came firſt to the place which Iſabella had choſen for her retreat. Alighting from his chaiſe, he haſtened to the Abbey, an gave notice that he was come to communicate ſome things of the laſt importance to the Counteſs de St. Eſtevan. The Nuns gave Don Ramiro admiſſion into the hall without the convent. Iſabella came thither ſome moments after Don Ramiro. As ſoon as ſhe perceived him, ſhe gave a terrible ſhriek, and fell into a ſwoon with the fright. Don Ramiro, not knowing the reaſon of Iſabella's fainting away, and aſcribing it purely to her affection, approached her, and taking her by the hand, ſaid to her, with a voice which was broken with tears and ſighs: "If I had thought, Madam, that my unexpected preſence would have brought the tragical ideas of your misfortunes ſo freſh to your remembrance, I would have been more cautions how I made my firſt appearance to you." Iſabella made no anſwer but fixed her eyes on Don Ramiro; and not withſtanding the fright ſhe was in, and her prepoſſeſſion that ſhe ſaw and heard a ghoſt, the image of her lover engaged all her attention. She durſt not anſwer, but ſhe heard and the 〈◊〉 : The force of her love, however, diminiſhed that of her fear.

Don Ramiro, being ſurpriſed to find Iſabella ſo aſtoniſhed, and diſcovering ſomething in her countenance which betrayed fear, ſaid to her, looking tenderly on her at the ſame time: "What, fair Iſabella, has time changed your heart? Am I hateful or indifferent to you? What is become of that love which you was to have retained for me, even beyond the grave? Ah! how different has my heart been form your's! nothing has been capable of changing my ſentiments. They are ſtill the ſame. They are as tender as ever."

Fear is like the other paſſions: the ſecond impreſſions of it are not ſo violent as the firſt; and a very little ſpace of time wears off the force of it. Iſabella ventured to look upon her lover's image. She afterwards heard him, and had the courage even to attempt to anſwer him; for, at the firſt effort ſhe made to ſpeak, her tongue faltered two or three times, but at laſt it formed diſtinct founds. "Oh! Don Ramiro, ſaid ſhe, is it poſſible for you to love me ſo well as to return from the other world to give me proofs of it! Since the dead know the ſtate of the living, you cannot be ignorant of the tears which I have ſhed for the loſs of you, and the tenderneſs with which I have ever remembered you. Notwithſtanding the fright which you have put me in, I conſider this moment that I now ſee you again as the happieſt of all my life."

No words could expreſs Don Ramiro's aſtoniſhment. He knew not what to think of Iſabella's diſcourſe. He was almoſt inclined to think that her ſenſes were impaired. "I am not dead, replied he, fair Iſabella; I live, and live only to adore you." Iſabella ſurpriſed at Don Ramiro's language. "You are really alive then, ſaid ſhe, looking tenderly on him, and my cruel huſband has not committed all the foul crimes which he related to me with as much aſſurance as cruelty. Oh! dear Ramiro! how many tears have you coſt me, and how do I delight to ſee you again? You would gueſs how great my joy muſt be, if you could but know the meaſure of my paſt ſorrow." She then gave him an account of her huſband's barbarity. Don Ramiro quickly perceived that his life was only owing to the miſtake of thoſe ruffians who had murdered his valet de chambre, and ſo great was his rage againſt the Count de St. Eſtevan, that he reſolved to go to Liſbon and fight a duel with him: nor was he even maſter enough of his temper to conceal his purpoſe from Iſabella. No, ſaid Iſabella, if you have any love for me, I forbid you to fight a duel with my huſband. If I am really dear to you, of which I make no manner of doubt, do not give me reaſon to complain of you. Do not ſtain my honour by a combat, wherein it will be thought that I was concerned. The tears which dropt from Iſabella's eyes, while ſhe was ſpeaking to Don Ramiro, melted him. The fury which worked in his ſoul with ſuch violence was ſucceeded by a warm tenderneſs. When he came to himſelf, he was afraid to add to the ſorrows of his dear miſtreſs, and feigned a compliance with every thing ſhe deſired. There are certain cauſes, ſuch as was this of Don Ramiro, wherein diſſimulation becomes neceſſary to a • over and tho' it appears ſo oppoſite to true love, it then is a neceſſary conſequence 〈…〉 . Iſabella being 〈◊〉 by promiſes which Don Ramiro did not 〈◊〉 to keep, ſaid to him, "I muſt alſo deſire another favor of you; which is that you will ſet out from this abbey with all the ſpeed you can, as your preſence cannot but be injurious to my reputation. Farewell, dear Ramiro, it is time that I take myſelf from you. I think my afflictions infinitely the lighter, ſince you are alive. At theſe words Iſabella, with tears in her eyes, went out of the parlour. Don Ramiro had not ſtrength to make anſwer, but he followed her to the gate, took her by the hand, watered it with tears as he kiſſed it, and, when he was alone, ſtepped ſome moments longer, quite oppreſſed with grief, and without ſeeming to remember the purpoſe he had contrived. But his deſire of puniſhing the Count de St. Eſtevan, quickly raged in him with more violence than before. He was no ſooner returned to his quarters, but he ordered his ſervants to get the horſes ready, and ſet out for Liſbon. He had already travelled ſix poſt miles, when he heard the firing of piſtols, at the entrance of a wood not far off, through which the great road led. He thought he heard the cry of perſons attacked, and puſhed on to the place from whence the noiſe came. He preſently diſcovered three perſons ſtoutly deſe • ding themſelves againſt ſix others, who ſurrounded and preſſed on them from every ſide. Don Ramiro thought himſelf obliged to aſſiſt perſons that were attacked with ſuch odds, and alighted therefore from his chaiſe. He was very well ſeconded by his two domeſtics; ſo that one of the highwaymen fell immediately by the point of his ſword, run in at his ſtomach, another died ſoon after of the wounds he had received; and the other four ſeeing the fate of their comrades, ſ • ed.

In the heat of the ſkirmiſh, Don Ramiro took no obſervation of the phyſiog •• y of the perſons whom he had aſſiſted. How great therefore was his ſurpriſe, when, drawing near to the perſon who ſeemed to be the maſter of the others, and who was ſo dangerouſly wounded that he could not ſtand, but was forced to lean againſt a tree, he found it was the Count de St. Eſtevan. His aſtoniſhment was ſo great that he ſtared at him without ſaying one word: The languiſhing condition he found him in ſuſpended his animoſity.—The Count perceiving on his part that his protector was Don Ramiro, ſeemed almoſt as much ſurpriſed as he, and much more confounded.—Though he perceived he had not many minutes to live, his jealouſy revived; ſo that he could not diſpoſſeſs himſelf of a notion that his rival had been to ſee Iſabella; and he was poſitive in his mind that ſhe only retired to the abbey, that ſhe might have the more freedom to converſe with him. Rage and fury intirely engroſſed his ſoul and he was reſolved to fill up the meaſure of all his iniquities; but he diſſembled, and concealed his wrath to render the effects of it the more fatal. "I perceive, ſaid he to Don Ramiro, that it was the will of Heaven that I ſhould be reconciled to you before I died, and that I ſhould with my own hand reſtore a felicity to you • of which I unjuſtly robbed you. The obligation I have to you, though it proves unſucceſsful, ought nevertheleſs to engage me to gratitude. I have not many more moments to live; permit me to make you the bearer of my laſt will to Iſabella. I have a right to require it of her; I wiſh that ſhe would give herſelf to you in marriage. My ſervants will tell her, and her father too, of the ſervice you have done me: They will be witneſſes that I die in friendſhip with you. I deſire you to forget what is paſt: I reſign my breath; be ſo good as to let me die in your arms, that I may expire with the ſatisfaction, at leaſt, of being perſuaded that you have pardoned me." Don Ramiro, ſeeing his enemy giving up the ghoſt, and touched with a remorſe for the misfortunes he had brought upon Iſabella, was ſo generous as to forget the injuries he had done to himſelf. I forgive you every thing, ſaid he to the Count, embracing him at the ſame time, and my heart is not"—Don Ramiro ſaid no more, but cried out; for the 〈◊〉 Count, embracing him, ſtabbed him with a dagger which he drew that inſtant out of his pocket. Don Ramiro, engaged at his enemy's trencher, wreſted the dagger out of his hand; and juſt as he was going to 〈◊〉 it into his heart▪ •• e Count fell to the ground, and died; which 〈◊〉 him from being the murderer of a man 〈◊〉 could no longer 〈◊〉 himſelf.

〈…〉 Don Ramiro's ſervants and thoſe two of the Count de St. Eſtevan, 〈…〉 their maſter for his curſe • villainy, took care alike of Don Ramiro. They ſtopped the blood which iſſued from his wound, and fetching a • itter from the next village, carried him in it, covered up, to the neareſt town, which was that wherein the abbey was ſituate. As ſoon as Don Ramiro was come thither, he ſent one of the Count's ſervants to acquaint Iſabella of the ſad affair that had happened. Such was her abhorrence of the Count's action, that ſhe could not lament his death; but ſo great was her affliction to hear that Don Ramiro was dangerouſly wounded, that ſhe could not help going to ſee him. She was juſt departing out of the Convent, when ſhe was informed that her father the Marquis de Mendoſa was arrived, and waited in the parlour to ſpeak with her. She ran to embrace him, and having acquainted him of her huſband's death, and of Don Ramiro's wound, the Marquis choſe to lead her himſelf to the man whom he commanded her to regard from that moment as her future ſpouſe.

The ſurgeons had juſt laid on the firſt dreſſing of Don Ramiro's wound, when Iſabella and her father came to him. He ſeemed ſo overjoyed at this favour, that he forgot the evils he had ſuffered. The hopes of being ſoon perfectly happy by the poſſeſſion of Iſabella, which the Marquis aſſured him of, contributed as much as the care of his doctors to his cure, which was compleated in a very little time, as was his marriage with his fair miſtreſs.