The stranger tossed aside his sable hat and plume, and dropped his
cloak, and stood before her in a rich dress of black velvet, trimmed
with point lace, a broadsword belted to his waist. He was a man of
middle age, of a fine, athletic figure, and handsome face, but there
was an indescribable expression in his dark eyes, in the stern lines
about his handsome mouth, that affected the gazer with a strange,
shuddering horror.

"Peruse me well, maiden," said the stranger. "I am not deformed. I am
as other men. If there be no glow in my cheek, still the blood that
flows through my veins is healthy and untainted. Moreover, though I be
not noble, my character is stainless. If to be the wife of an honest
man is not too dear a purchase for your life, accept my hand, and you
are saved."

"Who are you?" cried Magdalena, intense curiosity mastering her even
in that moment.

"I am the executioner of Madrid!" replied the stranger.

Magdalena covered her face with her hands, and uttered a low cry of
horror.

"I am the executioner of Madrid!" repeated he. "I have never committed
crime in my life, though my blade has been reddened with the blood of
my fellow-creatures. Yet no man takes my hand,--no man breaks bread or
drinks wine with me. I, the dread minister of justice, a necessity of
society, like the soldier on the rampart, or the priest at the altar,
am a being lonely, abhorred, accursed. Yet I have the feelings, the