Her mother seemed again to stand
before her; and she thought, as she heard her caressing voice, and met
the glance of her dove-like eyes, she laid her head on her bosom, as
she was wont to do in her happy childhood; and peace seemed to sink
into her heart so blessedly, so deeply, that the very fever of her
frame departed. A voice aroused her with a start; it was so like her
mother's, that the dream seemed lingering still.
"Marie, my beloved one," murmured the voice, and a breath fanned
her cheek, as if some one were leaning over her. She unclosed her
eyes--the words, the voice, still so kept up the illusion, though
the tones were deeper than a woman's, that even the hated dress of
a familiar of the Inquisition could not create alarm. "Hast thou
forgotten me, my child? But it matters not now. Say only thou wilt
trust me, and safety lies before us. The fiends hold not their hellish
court to-night; and the arch-fiend himself is far distant, on a sudden
summons from the King, which, though the grand Inquisitor might scorn,
Don Luis will obey. Wilt come with me, my child?"
"Ay, any where! That voice could not deceive: but 'tis all vain," she
continued, the first accents of awakened hope lost in despondency--"I
cannot rise."
"It needs not. Do thou hold the lantern, Marie; utter not a
word--check even thy breath--and the God of thy fathers shall save
thee yet.
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