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of the church at a considerable distance from that in which the image stood.
    “So!” said Lorenzo to himself; “this is only some foolish love affair. I believe, I may as well be gone, for I can do no good in it.”
    In truth, till that moment it never came into his head that he could do any good in it; but he thought it necessary to make some little excuse to himself for having indulged his curiosity. He now made a second attempt to retire from the church. For this time he gained the porch without meeting with any impediment; but it was destined that he should pay it another visit that night. As he descended the steps leading into the street, a cavalier rushed against him with such violence, that both were nearly overturned by the concussion. Lorenzo put his hand to his sword.
    “How now, Segnor?” said he; “what mean you by this rudeness?”
    “Ha! is it you, Medina?” replied the new comer, whom Lorenzo by his voice now recognized for Don Christoval. “You are the luckiest fellow in the universe, not to have left the church before my return. In, in! my dear lad! they will be here immediately!”
    “Who will be here?”
    “The old hen and all her pretty little chickens. In, I say; and then you shall know the whole history.”
    Lorenzo followed him into the cathedral, and they concealed themselves behind the statue of St. Francis.
    “And now,” said our hero, “may I take the liberty of asking what is the meaning of all this haste and rapture?”
    “Oh! Lorenzo, we shall see such a glorious sight! The prioress of St. Clare and her whole train of nuns are coming hither. You are to know, that the pious father Ambrosio [the Lord reward him for it!] will upon no account move out of his own precincts. It being absolutely necessary for every fashionable convent to have him for its confessor, the nuns are in consequence obliged to visit him at the abbey; since, when the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must needs go to the mountain. Now the prioress of St. Clare, the better to escape the gaze of such impure eyes as belong to yourself and your humble servant, thinks proper to bring her holy flock to confession in the dusk: she is to be admitted into the abbey-chapel by yon private door. The porteress of St. Clare, who is a worthy old soul and a particular friend of mine, has just assured me of their being here in a few moments. There is news for you, you rogue! We shall see some of the prettiest faces in Madrid!”
    “In truth, Christoval, we shall do no such thing. The nuns are always veiled.”
    “No! no! I know better. On entering a place of worship, they ever take off their veils, from respect to the saint to whom ’Tis dedicated. But hark, they are coming! Silence! silence! Observe, and be convinced.”
    “Good!” said Lorenzo to himself; “I may possibly discover to whom the vows are addressed of this mysterious stranger.”
    Scarcely had Don Christoval ceased to speak, when the domina of St. Clare appeared, followed by a long procession of nuns. Each upon entering the church took off her veil. The prioress crossed her hands upon her bosom, and made a profound reverence as she passed the statue of St. Francis, the patron of this cathedral. The nuns followed her example, and several moved onwards without having satisfied Lorenzo’s curiosity. He almost began to despair of seeing the mystery cleared up, when, in paying her respects to St. Francis, one of the nuns happened to drop her rosary. As she stooped to pick it up the light flashed full in her face. At the same moment she dexterously removed the letter from beneath the image, placed it in her bosom, and hastened to resume her rank in the procession.
    “Ha!” said Christoval in a low voice, “here we have some little intrigue; no doubt.”
    “Agnes, by heaven!” cried Lorenzo.
    “What, your sister? Diavolo! Then somebody, I suppose, will have to pay for our peeping.”
    “And shall pay for it without delay,” replied the incensed