At the palace gate don Adolfo found his horse held by a soldier; he at once leapt into the saddle, and after throwing a coin to the asistente, he again crossed the Plaza Mayor, and entered the Calle de Tacuba.

It was about nine in the morning; the streets were crowded with pedestrians, horsemen, carriages, and carts, proceeding in all directions. The city, in a word, was leading that feverish existence of capitals during moments of a crisis, when all faces are restless, all glances suspicious—when conversations are only held in a low voice, and people are always led to suppose an enemy in the inoffensive stranger whom accident makes them suddenly meet.

Don Adolfo, while rapidly advancing through the streets, did not fail to observe what was going on around him; the ill-disguised restlessness, the growing anxiety of the population did not escape him. Earnestly attached to General Miramón, whose noble character, lofty ideas, and, above all, his real desire for the welfare of his country, had attracted him, he felt a profound mental grief at the sight of the general despondency of the masses, and the disaffection of the people toward the only man, who at this moment, had he been honestly supported, was able to save them from the government of Juárez—that is to say, from anarchy organized by the terrorism of the sabre. He continued to advance without appearing to pay any attention to what was going on, or to what was being said in the groups collected on the doorsteps, in the shops, or at the corners of the streets, groups in which the carrying off of the English money by General Márquez upon the peremptory order of the President of the Republic, was being discussed and appreciated in a thousand different ways.

Still, on entering the suburbs, don Adolfo found the population calmer; the news had now spread there, not to any great extent, and those who knew it appeared to trouble themselves very slightly about it, or perhaps considered it perfectly simple, although it was really a most arbitrary act of power. Don Adolfo perfectly understood this distinction; the inhabitants of the faubourg, mostly poor people belonging to the lowest class of the population, were indifferent to an act which could not affect them, and by which only the rich city merchants could be hurt. On coming near the Garita, or Gate of Belén, he at length stopped before an isolated house, of modest, though not poor appearance, whose door was carefully closed. At the sound of his horse's hoofs, a window was half opened, a cry of delight was raised in the interior of the house, and a moment later the gate was thrown wide open to let him pass in. Don Adolfo entered, crossed the zaguán, reached the patio, where he dismounted, and fastened his horse to a ring fixed in the wall.

"Why take that trouble, don Jaime?" a lady who appeared in the patio, said in a soft and melodious voice; "Do you intend to leave us so quickly?"

"Perhaps so, sister," don Adolfo, or don Jaime made answer; "I can only remain a very little time with you, in spite of my lively desire to grant you several hours."

"Very good, brother; in the doubt you can let José lead your horse to the corral, where it will be more comfortable than in the patio."

"Do as you please, sister."

"You hear, José?" the lady said to an old man servant; "Lead Moreno to the corral, rub him down carefully, and give him a double feed of alfalfa. Come, brother," she added, passing her arm through don Jaime's.

The latter offered no objection, and both entered the home. The chamber they went into was a dining room, plainly furnished, but with that taste and neatness which denote assiduous attention; the table was laid for three persons.

"You will breakfast with us, I suppose, brother?"

"With pleasure; but before all, sister, kiss me, and tell me all about my niece."

"She will be here in an instant; as for her cousin, he is absent, do you know it?"

"I fancied he had returned."

"Not yet, and we all were very anxious about him, as we are about you, for he leads a most mysterious life: going off without saying where to, staying away frequently a very long time, and then returning without saying where he comes from."

"Patience, María, patience! Do you not know," he said with a shade of sorrow in his voice, "that we are toiling for you and your daughter? Some day, ere long I hope, all will be cleared up."

"Heaven grant it, don Jaime; but we are very solitary, and very anxious in this small house; the country is in a state of utter disturbance, the roads are infested by brigands; we tremble every moment lest you or don Estevan may have fallen into the hands of Cuéllar, Carvajal, or El Rayo, those bandits without faith or law, about whom frightful stories are daily told us."

"Reassure yourself, sister, Cuéllar, Carvajal, and even El Rayo," he replied with a smile, "are not so terrible as people think proper to represent to you; however, I only ask a little patience of you; before a month, I repeat, sister, all mystery shall cease, and justice be done."

"Justice!" do?a María murmured, with a sigh; "Will that justice restore me my lost happiness—my son?"

"Sister," he replied with some degree of solemnity, "why doubt the power of Heaven? Hope, I tell you."

"Alas! Don Jaime, do you really understand the full import of that remark? Do you know what it is to say to a mother: hope?"

"María, do I need to repeat to you that you and your daughter are the two sole ties that attach me to life, that I have devoted my entire existence to you, sacrificing for the sake of seeing you one day happy, avenged and restored to the high rank from which you ought not to have descended, all the joys of family life and all the excitement of ambition. Do you suppose that you would see me so calm and resolute if I did not feel the certainty of being on the point of attaining that object which I have pursued for so many years with so much perseverance and such great obstinacy? Do you not know me still? Have you no further confidence in me?"

"Yes, yes, brother, I have faith in you," she exclaimed, as she sank in his arms; "and that is why I incessantly tremble, even when you tell me to hope, because I know that nothing can check you, that every obstacle raised before you will be overthrown, every peril met, and I fear lest you may succumb in this mad struggle sustained solely on my behalf."

"And for the honour of our name, sister—do not forget that—in order to restore to an illustrious coat of arms its now tarnished splendour; but enough of this, here is my niece; of all this conversation, remember but one word, which I repeat to you—hope!"

"Oh! Oh! Thanks, brother," she said, embracing him for the last time.

At this moment a door opened, and a young lady appeared.

"Ah, my uncle, my dear uncle!" she exclaimed eagerly approaching him and offering him her cheek, which he kissed several times; "At last you have arrived, and are most welcome."

"What is the matter, Carmen, my child?" he asked affectionately; "Your eyes are red, you are pale, you have been crying again."

"It is nothing, uncle—the folly of a nervous and anxious woman, that is all; have you not brought don Estevan back with you?"

"No," he replied lightly, "he will not return for some days; but he is perfectly well," he added, exchanging a significant look with do?a María.

"Have you seen him?"

"Yes, only two days ago. I am slightly the cause of the delay, as I insisted on his not yet returning, as I wanted him down there; but are we not going to breakfast? I am literally dying of hunger," he said to turn the conversation.

"Yes, directly, we were only waiting for Carmen: now she is here, let us sit down," and she rang a bell.

The same old servant who had led don Jaime's horse to the corral, came in.

"You can serve, José," do?a Carmen said to him.

They sat down to table and began their meal.

We will trace in a few lines the portrait of the two ladies whom the exigencies of our narrative have compelled us to bring on the scene. The first, do?a María, don Jaime's sister, was still a beautiful woman, although her sunken and worn features bore traces of great sorrows; her carriage was noble, her manner graceful, and her smile sweet and sad. Although she could not be more than forty-two, her hair had turned perfectly white, and formed a striking contrast with her black eyebrows and bright flashing eyes, which revealed strength and youth. Do?a María was dressed in long mourning robes, which gave her a religious and ascetic appearance.

Do?a Carmen, her daughter, was twenty-two years of age at the most; she was lovely as her mother—of whom she was the living portrait—had been at her age. All about her was graceful and dainty; her voice had an extraordinary sweet modulation, her pure brow evidenced candour, and from her large black eyes, surmounted by eyebrows traced as if with a pencil, and fringed with long velvety lashes, escaped a gentle and hurried glance, filled with a strange charm. Her dress was simple: it consisted of a white muslin robe, fastened at the waist by a wide blue ribbon, and a mantilla of embroidered lace. Such were the two ladies.

In spite of the indifferen............