the stairs to go to Don Jaime's room. The poor young man, uncared for, untended, appeared to be sleeping the most tranquil sleep of all, upon a bench of stone, with a bloody sheet thrown over him. The fresh air which struck his face as I lifted the cloth caused him to open his eyes, over which the glaze of death was already stealing.
"I know who you are," he said;" it was you who succored me when I was in want, and you will remain by me till the last, I am sure. Thank you."
The Biscayan gave me his clay-cold hand.
"My hand is burning hot, is it not? A few minutes ago she pressed it between both of hers. Good God! what will she say when she never sees me again?"
"Never fear," I replied. "Tell me where I can see Donna Luz."
The Biscayan whispered her address into my ear.
"Now," replied he, "it is useless. My hours are numbered; she will come too late! When I am gone, don't tell her that she was the cause of my death. Inform her only that my last thought was of her."
Some rambling, unconnected words now escaped from the poor Spaniard his mother's name, his country's, and his dear wife's, for whom he had paid the penalty of his life. While the exterior world was gradually fading from his eyes, the sweet and holy impressions of childhood, the first imprinted on the heart of man, and the last to leave it, still threw a few bright beams athwart the thickening darkness of his thoughts. All at once, turning himself to me, he exclaimed, in a clear, distinct voice,
"You will go and see my mother, won't you? Be it a year after this, or even ten. Say this to console
