 expired without a groan. As soon as the breath had
forsaken her body, father Pablos retired, sincerely affected at the melancholy
scene. On her part, Flora gave way to the most unbridled sorrow. Far different
concerns employed Ambrosio; he sought for the pulse whose throbbing, so Matilda
had assured him, would prove Antonia's death but temporal. He found it - he
pressed it - it palpitated beneath his hand, and his heart was filled with
ecstacy. However, he carefully concealed his satisfaction at the success of his
plan. He assumed a melancholy air, and, addressing himself to Flora, warned her
against abandoning herself to fruitless sorrow. Her tears were too sincere to
permit her listening to his counsels, and she continued to weep unceasingly. The
friar withdrew, first promising to give orders himself about the funeral, which,
out of consideration for Jacintha as he pretended, should take place with all
expedition. Plunged in grief for the loss of her beloved mistress, Flora
scarcely attended to what he said. Ambrosio hastened to command the burial. He
obtained permission from the prioress, that the corse should be deposited in St.
Clare's sepulchre: and on the Friday morning, every proper and needful ceremony
being performed, Antonia's body was committed to the tomb.
    On the same day Leonella arrived at Madrid, intending to present her young
husband to Elvira. Various circumstances had obliged her to defer her journey
from Tuesday to Friday; and she had no opportunity of making this alteration in
her plans known to her sister. As her heart was truly affectionate, and as she
had ever entertained a sincere regard for Elvira and her daughter, her surprise
at hearing of their sudden and melancholy fate was fully equalled by her sorrow
and disappointment. Ambrosio sent to inform her of Antonia's bequest: at her
solicitation, he promised, as soon as Elvira's trifling debts were discharged,
to transmit to her the remainder. This being settled, no other business detained
Leonella in Madrid, and she returned to Cordova with all diligence.
 

                                   Chapter X

 Oh! could I worship aught beneath the skies,
 That earth hath seen, or fancy could devise,
 Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand,
 Built by no mercenary vulgar hand,
 With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair,
 As ever dressed a bank, or scented summer air.
                                                                         Cowper.
 
His whole attention bent upon bringing to justice the assassins of his sister,
Lorenzo little thought how severely his interest was suffering in another
quarter. As was before mentioned, he returned not to Madrid till the evening of
that
