truth?"

"Hast thou not thyself alluded to violence, and wrath, and hatred,
Marie? Answer me, my child; didst thou know any one, regarding the
generous Morales with such feelings? Could there be one to regard him
as his foe?"

Crouching lower and lower at Isabella's feet, her face half burled in
her robe, Marie's reply was scarcely audible; but the Queen's brow
contracted.

"None?" she repeated almost sternly; "wouldst thou deceive at such a
moment? contradict thyself? And yet I am wrong to be thus harsh. Poor
sufferer!" she added, tenderly, as she vainly tried to raise Marie
from the ground; "thou hast all enough to bear; and if, indeed, the
base wretch who has dared thus to trample on the laws alike of God
and man, and stain his own soul with the foul blot of midnight
assassination, be him whom we have secured, thou couldst not know him
as thy husband's foe. It is all mystery--thine own words not least;
but his murder shall be avenged. Ay, had my own kinsman's been the
hand to do the dastard deed."

"Murder! who was his murderer?" repeated Marie, the horror of such a
fate apparently lost in other and more terrible emotion; "who could
have raised his sword against my husband? Said I he had no foe? Had he
not one, and I, oh, God! did not I create that enmity? But he would
not have murdered him; oh, no--no: my liege, my gracious liege, tell
me in mercy--my brain feels reeling--who was the murderer?"

"One thou hast known but little space, poor sufferer," replied the