Inquisitor, "this is thy work: but thou shalt not triumph. Here, by
thine own shrine, I spit at and defy thee, as once before, amidst the
tortures of thy inhuman court. Thus--thus--thus--Almamen the Jew
delivers the last of his house from the curse of Galilee!"

"Hold, murderer!" cried a voice of thunder; and an armed man burst
through the crowd and stood upon the platform. It was too late: thrice
the blade of the Hebrew had passed through that innocent breast; thrice
was it reddened with that virgin blood. Leila fell in the arms of her
lover; her dim eyes rested upon his countenance, as it shone upon her,
beneath his lifted vizor-a faint and tender smile played upon her lips--
Leila was no more.

One hasty glance Almamen cast upon his victim, and then, with a wild
laugh that woke every echo in the dreary aisles, he leaped from the
place. Brandishing his bloody weapon above his head, he dashed through
the coward crowd; and, ere even the startled Dominican had found a voice,
the tramp of his headlong steed rang upon the air; an instant--and all
was silent.

But over the murdered girl leaned the Moor, as yet incredulous of her
death; her head still unshorn of its purple tresses, pillowed on his lap
--her icy hand clasped in his, and her blood weltering fast over his
armour. None disturbed him; for, habited as the knights of Christendom,
none suspected his faith; and all, even the Dominican, felt a thrill of
sympathy at his distress. How he came hither, with what object,--what
hope, their thoughts were too much locked in pity to conjecture. There,
voiceless and motionless, bent the Moor, until one of the monks
approached and felt the pulse, to ascertain if life was, indeed, utterly
gone.